Recycled Post Alert: This was originally posted in January 2008.
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He is. I've seen him. This isn't him, but he kind of looks like him. This is Earle Hyman.
I didn't really believe in Guardian Angels before this happened. I do now. And Guardian Angels aren't necessarily ethereal fairies with glittery wings. Mine sure wasn't. He was a crusty old black man, not quite as refined and collegiate looking as Earle Hyman. He drove a white cargo van, you know the kind with two front seats and just loading area in the back? He drank hot coffee and listen to Soul music on the radio.
For about a year in 1986-1987 I lived in Baytown, Texas and commuted daily to my low-paying clerical job in Houston. I drove Highway 146 South out of Baytown to the 225 (called the Pasadena Freeway). From there I went on to the 610 Loop heading South (then west) and exited Buffalo Speedway. Feel free to mapquest it - it's all right there.
Highway 146 merged from the north (Baytown) and the south (LaPorte) onto the 225. Now this didn't happen every single day, but I'd estimate a good 1-3 days of the week, I would merge with a white cargo van who came up from the Laporte side. We'd drive mostly side-by-side all along the 225, then onto the 610, then we'd both exit Buffalo Speedway. Only I'd turn Left and the van would turn Right. It was always the same old black man driving the van. His hair was mostly sprinkled white, cut short and the deep lines in his face would fold back like an accordian when we began recognizing each other, smiling and waving "hello" when we merged and then "goodbye" when we parted on Buffalo Speedway. Again, this didn't occur every day - but it got to where I would look for him. Sometimes driving slow in case he was behind me he could catch up. But usually, if we didn't merge at the same time, I didn't see him.
At this time, I was still driving the "no-grill mobile" from my high school days. A 1979 Plymouth Volare with a Duster package. It was white with red pinstripes, red vinyl seats (read: burning mother-f#$#@ hot in the Houston heat), NO A/C, a push-button radio... and I think that sums up the options available on this sweet baby.
This is not my car, but it looked very similar. Minus the tinting. Replace the chrome rims with factory alloy scratched to hell. Replace the gas cap with a red mechanics rag. Yes, it was a fuse - I was so dumb back then. And minus the spoiler thingy in the back.
Also minus the grill. I left mine on the sidewalk of a Dairy Queen. Who knew a brick wall would do that to a plastic grill!
Ouch. The skin on the backs of my thighs just shuddered from painful memories of parts of their former selves being melted onto the red vinyl seats just like these in the scorching 110 degree humid heat of Houston. Of course my beast didn't have the rad steering wheel, tachometer, 4 on the floor shifter and other little doo-dads this pampered car has.
I had no car insurance. I made $6.00 an hour and that only paid for my clothes, shoes and the occasional food substances I shoved into my mouth. Oh yeah, plus part of the rent my sister and her husband made me pay for living in their flea-bag, cockroach infested tiny house. Ahhh... good times.
So, back to the story.
On this particular morning I was driving to work wearing a pink and white pinstriped shirt dress with HUGE-ASS shoulder pads and a big wide white belt. Because I had a waist then. I was wearing panty house, white plastic heels that made my feet smell like Roquefort cheese at the end of the day and my long brown hair was clipped back with a big white bow barrette.
Remember those? Where the bows were 2x wider than your head so it looked like you were sprouting wings out of the back of your skull? What the hell were we thinking?I didn't see Mr. White Cargo Van guy that morning. Other than that, the drive was normal - traffic flowed well, no new alarming rattle sounds from the car other than the normal ones I had gotten used to. I exited Buffalo Speedway, probably doing about 45 mph. It's a long exit that leads to a red light. Luckily, I turn left and didn't have to try to plow across several lanes of traffic to turn right. I saw the friendly Houston Chronicle paper salesman who commandeered that corner. He also sold roses. He gave me one for free one time. Then I felt obliged to buy a paper from him every now and then. I saw a couple of cars ahead of me at the stop light, I eased onto the brake to slow down and *thud* - my pedal went all the way to the floor with no resistance whatsoever. NONE.
My heart jumped into my throat, my hands tightened onto the steering wheel, I looked from left to right - Left, concrete embankment rising to the freeway. That won't work. Right, a line of cars all stopped. Uh-uh. Straight ahead. Mr. Houston Chronicle salesman shouted his usual banter and the tail lights of some kind of truck. I could either plow over the newspaper dude or hit the truck. I closed my eyes, laid on my horn, kept the wheel straight and braced for the worst.
The worst really wasn't that bad. We all had chrome bumpers back then. No fiberglass wanna-be bumpers that splinter into shards like the cars of today. I hit the truck, he hit the car in front of him. We all got out. Surveyed a little bumper scratch in the chrome is all. Everyone was in a hurry to get to work. They left.
I didn't.
I was still shaken.
My car didn't have brakes. I wasn't about to get back in and drive it in Houston rush hour traffic. I also didn't have car insurance. I also didn't have any money. I did what any 19 year old girl would do. I sat down in my car and cried. A big slobbery cry. I wanted my Mom, 800 miles away. I wanted to call someone. I had no money. Not even enough change for a candy bar.
Then Mr. White Cargo Van pulled up beside me. Gave me a concerned look and pulled into the gas station on the corner. Meanwhile, cars are going around me honking - I had my hazard lights on, but it still caused a bit of a congestion on the exit ramp.
My old black man commuter friend whom I had never talked to up to this point came over and I told him the situation. More like I blubbered and spit out the main details. He gave me a handkerchief. It smelled a little funny. But I used it. He handed me the keys to his van, told me he would drive my car to a shop nearby where he knew the owner and I was to follow him.
"But, but..." I protested. "I have no brakes."
He just waved me on. "Don't you mind that. Just follow me, now."
I was numb. I was also naive. But my gut trusted him. My instincts have gotten me out of close calls before, but this time was different. This man was not here to harm me. Though I was very vulnerable and easily could have been lured by someone with wrong intentions.
I followed him. That's when I saw the inside of the cargo van. There were a lot of newspapers. I'm not sure if he delivered them or not. I didn't survey it for more than a second. He had a large thermos cup of hot black coffee. The kind with the screw-on lid my dad used to take on the road with him. And Marvin Gaye was singing "Let's Get It On" on the radio. Not quite appropriate for this situation, but his voice was soothing on my nerves nonetheless.
We pulled into a brake shop. I think the sign said Dan's or Danny's but I can't quite remember. I didn't see where Mr. White Cargo Van went, but my car was outside of a bay door. I sat down in the waiting area, surveying the parking lot for him. My mind was turning, wondering how I was going to pay for these brakes. I decided I would just have to write a check. It would be a hot check. I might be able to ask them to let me post date it for payday, but then if they said no, they'd know I didn't have the money. I had no one to call. My parents are like bird parents. They shove the young out of the nest and either they'll fly or they'll fall. Sure, if we fell they would help us back up eventually, but they'd wait a while to see if we could figure it out ourselves and find our own way first. My sister and her husband were also broke. And I knew no one else in Houston. Except for a few co-workers who were mere acquaintances. I hadn't been there long and hadn't made any friends. Let alone, friends good enough to loan me $100 for a brake job.
Mr. White Cargo Van came inside and told me he was in a hurry, that he'd talked to the owner of the shop and for me not to worry, they'd do a good job on getting my car fixed. And he left just as quick. I think I muttered thank you, but I'm not sure. I wanted to know his name. I wanted to know where he lived so I could make him banana bread or a big pie or something. I wanted him to know just how eternally grateful I was for him being the one human being in the world at that moment who came to my aid.
About 45 minutes passed. A guy told me my car was ready and handed me my keys. I reached into my purse for my checkbook and he waved his hands and told me that wasn't necessary. He said my friend took care of it.
What?
I didn't even know him. In fact, he told me to follow him here to this shop because he knew the owner. I asked him if he knew the guy. He shook his head, nope, never had seen him before. He paid cash. I was dumbfounded. Stupefied.
I drove on to work, two hours late, but I didn't care. I couldn't stop thinking about him.
I didn't see him on the drive home. I told my sister and brother-in-law about him.
I didn't see him on the drive to work the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.
Or the whole six months I lived there after this incident. I would even drive up and down that freeway on my days off at certain times of the day hoping to find Mr. White Cargo Van again. It was like he vanished. Twenty-two years later and I still think about him from time to time.
Occasionally I think I see him, but I think it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Kind of like when you recognize someone's gait, the way they walk, and it matches a loved one who has passed on, but for just a fleeting moment your heart jumps and you think "It's him!" (or her). It's kind of like that. I have grieved him like I have grieved other losses in my life. Although, I'm not sure if he ever left or if he's still with me, guiding me sometimes.
To this day I have a fondness for old black men. I'm secretly in love with Morgan Freeman. There, I said it. I would marry him if he asked. (Sorry, hubby - it won't happen, I promise.) Morgan Freeman just has that wise, yet friendly and approachable look about him. His demeanor reminds me of My old black man. But Earle Hyman looks more like him in the face.
Combine the two and you've got him... My Guardian Angel.
So if you ever see an old black man driving a white cargo van, tell him I said "thank you" and that I love him. *sniff*
3. Take three drinks if Gary mentions the following:
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