by Cynthia Nelson
The Atlanta highway was crowded with anxious drivers wanting to get home in time for dinner. I could feel tempers flaring as I devilishly danced my car around and in front of the other drivers. I hung over the steering wheel poised like "Snidley Whiplash" and mimicked his evil laugh. My six-year-old niece was sitting in the passenger seat beside me. With an I'm-not- impressed look on her face she gave me one of those disapproving nods. "Auntie Cindy," she exclaimed in her adult condemning tone. "Sorry, Brittini," I giggled, "I guess I'm not playing nice, am I?" My powerful posture quickly changed into a cowardly slump, and with my lower lip extended, I unwillingly moved to the slower lane. I suppose with the scenery no longer in a blur of colors, Brittini was able to notice a young man hitchhiking on the side of the road. "What's that man doing Auntie Cindy?" she naively inquired. "He's waiting for someone to give him a ride, I guess." She didn't hesitate to reply. "He'll be waiting a long time won't he? I mean everyone knows you're not supposed to pick up strangers." "That's right Brittini; No matter how much you may want to help, if you don't know 'em, you don't pick 'em up!" Unfortunately I was speaking from experience, as I was reminded of one of the saddest lessons I had ever been forced to learn.
It was another hot and muggy July day in Chicago, and I was driving down Highway 90 on my way to my nighttime job. I glanced over at my "Bib Bag" which always occupied the passenger seat beside me. In this bag was everything I needed to execute my daily routine. There was a body suit, a t-shirt, one sweatshirt, a pair of gym shoes, 2 pairs of socks, a walkman, several cassette tapes, jeans, a dress shirt, lunch, dinner and my purse. My bag was constructed of black burlap with heavy duty stitching, and the seams stretched as I zipped it closed every morning. My right shoulder was beginning to ache from the extra twenty-five pounds I placed on it throughout the day.
As I maneuvered through the evening traffic, I couldn't help but think how lucky I was to find the part-time job at Mercantile. The company only needed someone to work from 7:00 p.m. to Midnight, and those hours fit my schedule perfectly! I would start my day at 7:00 a.m. in a dress, nylons and heals at a small company where I worked as a secretary. At 4:45 p.m. I would rummage through my "Big Bag" and quickly change into my aerobic clothes. By 5:00 I was at the gym huffing and puffing as I worked up a sweat for an hour and a half. Next I would hop in my car and prepare myself for the Indy 500 Chicago Style. The 6:30 p.m. traffic was less congested at that hour, but I still had to do quite a bit of "offensive" driving to get to my final destination by 6:58! As soon as I walked in the doors of Mercantile, I would have approximately two minutes to change out of my sweaty clothes and into my jeans and dress shirt. I had the timing down to a science and bragged about how I was never late!
However, on this particular day, Jamie, my supervisor and good friend, wanted me to pick her up some McDonalds at the "Oasis" on my way in to work. An "Oasis" is a fancy, but fitting name for a rest stop in Illinois, which was a gas station, vending machines, ATM's, several pay phones and a fast food restaurant. The restaurant sits above the highway, stretched across the six lanes of traffic, like a bridge. I suppose that to a weary, hungry traveler, seeing a McDonalds in the horizon would be like an oasis to someone who is lost in the desert.
As I parked my car by the restaurant I noticed two women walking rather quickly through the parking lot. One of the women was white, about fifty years old and conservatively dressed in a business suit. She walked with her head down to shield her face from the pieces of dirt and gravel that were being whisked about by the strong easterly wind. Her lips were pursed together tightly as she quickened her pace; it was quite obvious that she was trying to ignore the poorly dressed, heavyset black woman walking closely behind her.
As I turned off my ignition, I wondered to myself what had brought these two women together. I leaned over to retrieve my purse from my big bag, when suddenly there was a loud knock at my window. I jumped and fixed a strong and confident gaze on the person who peered into my car. I was surprised to see the same black woman that was walking through the lot just moments before.
I immediately dropped my guard for she was crying and looked desperate. As I rolled down my window she began talking quickly. She had a heavy Southside accent, and it was extremely hard to understand all that she was trying so desperately to explain. I strained my ears and brain until I finally understood.
Her car had broken down at the other Oasis about five miles away, on Highway 294. "No one will help me because I'm black!" she cried. Suddenly, as if on cue, I saw him, a little boy, no more than four or five years old. He was sucking his thumb, and with the same hand, he held tightly to his mother's orange polyester shirt. He peaked at me from behind the woman's large, bumpy thighs.
How could anyone turn away a woman and her child? I reasoned. "Of course I can give you a ride!" I cheerfully replied. I estimated the detour would put me about fifteen minutes behind schedule. It was easy to convince myself that being late for work would be worth a gesture of kindness to a stranger in need. I figured I could call Jamie after I dropped the woman off at the next Oasis and tell her I'd be late. Jamie would understand; besides, I was bringing her dinner!
I unlocked the back door of the passenger side since my front seat was already occupied by my big bag. The woman pointed to the lock on the front door, indicating that's where she wanted to sit.
Like a robot that was being given commands, I unlocked the passenger door without a hesitation. Her large arms seemed to engulf the length of my car as she pulled open both front and back doors at the same time! I was impressed as she picked up my bag with little effort, and tossed it into the back seat behind me. Without a moment's delay, she quickly picked up her son and buckled him in next to my bag. She eased herself into the car and moved the seat back so she would fit comfortably. The large woman gently rocked back and forth to gain momentum as she strained to reach and close the car door. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and with her hands began to thank me repeatedly. "People are so cruel," she declared "I can't never get no help because I'm black. No one trusts me!" I told her that I was raised to believe people are people, no matter what color, race or religion. "My mother and father always told us to treat people and animals with kindness, because we all feel pain and bleed the same blood," I proclaimed. "I'm very luckily not to have the same racist limitations as most people. So, because of the way I was reared, I have the pleasure of meeting wonderful friends who have added to my life, people I never would have met if I were a racist." I was thinking of, and referring to, my friendship with Jamie. She was my best friend, and if I were at all prejudiced I never would have had the opportunity to experience all the love, humor, and support that she gave so genuinely. I continued chatting away as my mind raced for opinions to share. "This is a subject I can talk for hours about!" I announced. I began to merge into the exit lane that would deliver us to her final destination, when suddenly she screamed. "NO! NOT HERE!" From the force of habit, I immediately slammed on the brakes. Everything in the car flew forward and I felt my big bag hit the back of my seat. "No, go this way!" she demanded!
I can't think straight when people are yelling at me. She was making a big commotion, and I was getting confused. It only took me a few seconds to realize that I WAS going in the right direction. I informed her not to worry, that I was taking the proper exit. She quickly apologized "Oh, that right," she rectified. "I just got confused, that's all." A few minutes later she interrupted our conversation and pulled out a check from her purse. "Could you cash this check for me so I can get my car fixed? It's not made out to me, but the person signed the back of it, so I can get the money instead. It's only for twenty-five dollars!" I kindly explained that I didn't have that much money. "As a matter of fact," I reasoned, "I only have four dollars, and I'm supposed to buy my boss McDonalds before I go into work." I was amazed at how bold she was to ask a stranger to cash a third party check. The woman's friendly tone swiftly changed as she opened her purse to reveal its contents. "Look, I ain't carryin' no gun!" She proclaimed. "I'm no criminal! Here Look! Look in my purse! See, there ain't no gun!" she continued in a very rushed manner as if she couldn't get the words out fast enough. Her large chest heaved violently as she gasped for air between long confusing sentences. "I just need twenty dollars to get my car fixed! No one will cash my check because I'm black! I just need help, that's all! Everyone thinks I'm a criminal. I have no money. No one will help me!"
I couldn't understand why she felt it was necessary to perform all the theatrics and why she had to constantly emphasize the fact that she was black. Her dramatic approach frightened me, and I began to feel a little uneasy. "I tried to cash it at the other Oasis," she persisted, "but the man wouldn't help me because I'm black." "Why would I think you're carrying a gun?" I interrupted. Choosing my words carefully, I calmly explained that I never thought she was carrying a gun and that I was very sorry, but I couldn't cash the check. "I really have only four dollars," I persisted, "and I really am supposed to buy my boss dinner tonight!" I could see the anger in her eyes as she glared at me from across the car. My heart began to pound heavily, and the muscles in my throat contracted; it was hard to swallow. I was terrified at what she might say or do next. She was angry at something, or someone, and I needed to get out of the situation as quickly as I possibly could. Suddenly, up ahead in the horizon, there it was--my Oasis! I felt a warm sense of relief rush through my body. I was safe, and my journey would soon be over.
"Well, if you can't cash the check for me" my loud passenger persisted, then maybe you can lend me twenty dollars. The guy at the gas station said the part I need for my car would cost me twenty dollars. I'll give you the check, and you come out ahead five dollars!" "ma'am . . . " I insisted. "I only have four dollars! I'm not lying!" She could tell by my forceful tone that I was getting frustrated. The woman sighed and turned slowly towards her son in the back seat. He had been so quite during the entire journey that I had completely forgotten he was even in the car. "Teryell, do you got the keys?" she calmly inquired. The boy politely answered, "Yes mama, I got the keys." She persisted in her usual style, "Are you sure you got them keys?" "Yes mama. I got the keys." An approving smile came across her lips as she turned forward. "Good Boy," she proudly responded.
I carefully directed my car onto the ramp that lead towards the Oasis. I was extremely anxious to get her out of my car. "Well, maybe you can get some money with one of them cash cards." I was astounded at her persistence, "You got one of them don't ya? You can get cash inside at the McDonalds, because they gots one of dem machines in there now. Then, you can give me that money, and I'll give you this check." I pulled up in front of the restaurant doors. The more people around the better, I thought to myself. "Hey, you can't park here!" she barked, "It's illegal! The signs say no parkin! You can't park in front of the restaurant like this!"
"I'm in a hurry!" I strongly declared. "I'm late for work and I need to call my boss, so I'll park whereever I want!"
"But that's my car over there; take me to my car!" She pointed out the back of the huge parking lot which is usually filled with semi's. The lot was completely deserted except for one car which was parked facing an empty field. I could tell by the taillights that it was an old Ford Lincoln. The vinyl top was torn and discolored from the harsh seasons of the Midwest. The back of the car sagged, the muffler was hanging loose from the chassis, and I could see the shadows of two male heads. A long, thick black arm extended from the driver's window as a lit cigarette balanced loosely between thick, long fingers. I didn't trust her but felt I was safe enough, in public, to take a stand: "No ma'am, this is as far as I'm going." The expression on her face quickly changed from intense anger to a look of desperation as she pleaded, "What about the cash card? I need help!"
"My bank doesn't give out cash cards yet," I lied. She pulled the latch of her door and violently pushed it open with her foot. She furiously gathered up her purse and car keys. "You won't help me because I'm black!" she yelled as she slammed the door closed. When she opened my back door to unbuckle her son, I forcefully replied, "No ma'am, I CAN'T help you because I'm BROKE, not because you're black!" She slammed the door and stormed off towards the back parking lot, dragging her son behind her. I sat in the car for a moment, wondering what had just happened. Didn't I give that woman a ride like she asked? Did she honestly EXPECT me to give her money, when I myself was struggling to make ends meet? Why was she so mad at me? How could she be so ungrateful and mean to the only person who actually wanted to help? I glanced at the clock in my car; the bright green numbers displayed 7:00. "Oh, no!" I gasped, "I have to call Jamie!" I ran inside the restaurant and called Mercantile's toll free number. I quickly explained to Jamie what had happened, and that I was running late.
"I still need to get directions on how to get back to 294 going north; also it will probably be another twenty minutes before I get there! I am so sorry Jamie; I didn't realize this would take me so out of the way."
"Don't worry about it, Cindy!" she said to reassure me. "Besides, I'm glad you called. I changed my mind. Pick me up some ribs at the "Rib Hut" instead of McDonalds, and I'll punch your time card now."
"I only have four dollars, Jamie!"
"Oh, yeah," she giggled. "How could I forget? I'll give you money when you get here and you can go back out and pick up my food later."
"Thanks Jamie! I'll be right there!"
I got in my car and drove a few feet to the gas station to get directions. I briefly mentioned to the attendant about the woman I had just helped. The attendant looked at me with pity in her eyes. Shaking her head, she exclaimed, "Oh honey, was this woman black? "Yes," I replied, with disgust at her assumption. "Did she have a small boy with her?" I stopped breathing (and judging). I was afraid to answer. "Yyyeeesss," I slowly replied. "Honey," she informed me, "I've reported this woman several times. She hasn't worked these parts for over a year; I'm surprised she's back! She works a scam, honey. You didn't give her money, did you?" Unable to speak, I simply shook my head. "Still, I'd go check my wallet if I were you!" I didn't give her a chance to finish her sentence, I rushed out the doors. I felt as if I couldn't get to my car fast enough. I opened the back door and my head began to spin as I gazed with disbelief.
Everything that had been tightly zipped up in my bag was now scattered across the floor of my back seat. I tried to convince myself and mumbled aloud: "The bag must have fallen open when I slammed on the brakes." I quickly corrected myself; no, I remembered, everything had been zipped up tightly. My purse, which was now emptied on the floor of the car, had also been zipped up INSIDE by BIG BAG.
My stomach turned as I came to the realization that the woman's son must have gone through my things. Suddenly, I panicked--"My wallet--Where's my wallet?" I got on my hands and knees in the back seat and began to rummage through the clutter of what had once been so perfectly organized. The contents of my wallet flashed in my head: my pictures, my birth certificate, special keep sakes, my credit cards! The more I remembered, the more I panicked. Finally I found it! "Thank God!" I signed, and I ran a quick inventory. Everything was there. My twenty- five dollar gift certificate, the lotto tickets from work, my checks-- everything was intact. Everything, that is, but the four dollars. I played back in my mind the details of everything that the woman had done and said. Suddenly it was all so clear. The woman planned everything! When I slammed on the brakes it was to confuse me. She talked loudly, and tried to intimidate me. When she got out of my car, I remembered she had both her purse and CAR KEYS in her hand! FLASHBACK! "Teryell, do you got the keys?" I shook my head in disbelief of my stupidity. That must have been a code to her son meaning "Did you get the CASH?" I fell back on my knees and buried my face in my hands. "STUPID! STUPID!! STUPID!!!" I cried. The gas station attendant came out to see if her prediction was correct. She placed her hand on my shoulder and gently asked, "Do you want me to call the police?" "No, it was only four dollars," I confessed. "But that's not the point: I just can't believe I was so stupid!" I threw my wallet on the floor. "Honey, don't be so hard on yourself; she's done it to a lot of people! The woman is a pro. She's a con artist," the attendant responded. I quickly fixed my gaze on the back parking lot. I bowed my head in disgust. The old Lincoln was gone. "STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!" I cried, punching my thighs.
The drive to Mercantile was long and lonely. My body felt numb, but my heart was wrenched with pain. I cried the entire way to work, and for hours into the night. Jamie tried to console me the best she could. I explained to her that I wasn't crying because of the money, that I was crying for several other reasons. The woman I tried to help was angry for reasons I will, thankfully, never be able to understand. She does what she thinks she has to do, in order to survive. However, my tears were shed in concern for her son. I cried as I thought of the wasted life this child had lead so far and what the future might hold for him. He will probably grow to be another angry young man, and his mother will make sure of it! I cried because it was within my nature to want to help people. But, if you can't trust a woman and her child, then who? No one? My new rule is, "If you don't know 'em, you don't pick 'em up!"
I still cry for the stranded people I pass on the road every day. There was a time I would have stopped to help, but never again. I still cry often because, in a way, that woman robbed every single one of us. She robbed her son of his innocence; and she robbed every stranger I might have helped, because that day she robbed me of my trust.