Everyday Angel

Several orange warning lights appeared all at once on the instrument panel, a few minutes after I had started down the road for a week away.  None of the lights seemed to apply: a skid marks icon when there was no snow or ice on the road, the emergency brake light which I had tested several times to make sure it was off and also two icons which I had never seen before. It’s often my nature to ignore a warning light since past experience has shown that whatever it was could wait until the next scheduled maintenance.  But four lights?  That’s a different story.  And my brakes did feel a little funny.  Caution seemed to be the wiser course before I got to Rte. 128. Since I was about to pass a service station I decided to pull in.

I need to back up here for a moment.  Years ago, whenever I sensed car trouble on the road, I was pretty sure most service stations could fix my problem. Sadly, that’s not the case anymore.   Because either the gas station is completely self-service or it’s primarily a kwik-mart.  Or the attendant is a teen just trying to earn a few dollars, definitely not majoring in shop.  Or there’s a mechanic but the garage doesn’t have the technology required for my hybrid.

So I end up  calling the dealer.  Then something like this happens:

“Hello, Thank you for calling Acme Auto Village.  Press 1 for sales, press 2 for  parts department, press 3 if you are a dealer, press 4 to cancel an appointment, press 5 to order a pizza (I made that one up), press 6 for service.”  I press 6.

“Service department. Can you hold?” (what choice do I have?)    Awful music… “Your call is important to us. We will be with you shortly.”  More awful music.  “Your call is important…” (really?) .  Worse music.  Finally someone answers:

“Service Department. How can I help you?”

“My car is showing several warning lights which look like they have something to do with my brakes. I’d like to bring it in for you to have a look.”

“What’s your name?’  “Polly Jenkins Man; Man with one ‘n'” .   “And the make and year of your car?”  “2011 Camry hybrid”.  “Registration number?”  “XYZ123” “Identification number?”  “Umm, I don’t know.”

” Excuse me one moment, ma’am.  I’m going to have to put you on hold.  I just need to take this call.”   Long wait, with even worse music.

“Thank you for holding. What was your name again?  “Polly Jenkins Man, m-a-n.   (Silence) .   “I’m sorry ma’am you don’t seem to be in our system.”

“It could be under ‘Jenkins'”.   (Pause)     “No I don’t see it there either.”  “Are you sure? I’ve been coming there for eight years.”  ” All right, ma’am, let me try once more; your last name again?”  “Man”.  ” No I still don’t see it. ”    “Are you looking under M-a-n”, with one “‘n'”.   “Only one ‘n’,  really?”   “Yes, really, one ‘n'”.

“Oh, now I see it, yes, you are in our system. Let me put you on hold again while I see when the service department can take you.” (Funny, I thought this was the service department).    More horrible music…. “Hello, Ms. Man? you still there?  They can take a look at your car a week from Tuesday. Now  I just need a little more information. What’s your phone number, your address, an email, social security number, credit rating, your date of birth, gender preference, name of your first pet, favorite TV show…” (Yes, I made some of those up too.  But sometimes it seems like that).

Obviously, any trip I was hoping to take wasn’t going to happen.

So back to the present moment with my four flashing orange signals. Prepared to be disappointed and dreading a return home to endure one of those phone calls, I pulled in to 9 Acre Gas on Rte. 117. When I entered the building, a friendly face greeted me. This turned out to be the owner, George Audi. I explained the situation. “Let’s have a look,” he said, and did.  He and his mechanic gave me an initial diagnosis and went right to work. “This might take a little while,” he told me. Half an hour or so later, I learned that the problem was indeed with the brakes and seemed to be fixed. But just to be sure, George sent my car to get a “second opinion” at George’s father’s service station on Thoreau Street, where it was given another going over and came back with a clean bill of health.  All of this for under $100.00 and I was on my way.

Why am I even telling this story?  Because in an increasingly impersonal and automated world, it is a reminder that now and then an angel appears in disguise just when you need one.  My story could have gone another way so easily. If George hadn’t been there, willing to fix my car on the spot, and to go the literal extra mile or three my trip would have ended a few miles from home.

Would George consider himself  an angel? Probably not.  But given that my trip was about to be deep-sixed before it even started, there he was, at the right time with the right tools, his expertise, willingness and a can-do attitude. That’s enough evidence for me that he was an angel in disguise; an everyday angel.  And he’s not the only one. I suspect that each of you can think of a time when someone appeared with exactly what was needed. There is an old saying that angels are envious of us since we have bodies and feelings and appetites, and every so often, an angel will occupy a human body for a while, just to see what it’s like. I like to think that I was lucky enough to meet George on the day an angel visited him.