A couple of high school pals and I discovered that “stranger” does not always mean “danger.” We were scared, but these guys helped us out of a real jam that we had stupidly gotten ourselves into.
We were fairly typical high school kids from a reasonably prosperous suburb on the north side of Chicago. (Point of interest: Future US presidential candidate Hillary Clinton was one of our classmates).
Of the three of us, only one had a driver’s license. Sometime after midnight, he snuck his parents’ car out of the driveway and picked up his two co-conspirators. We thought it would be great fun to go for a long drive in the middle of the night without telling anyone.
By today’s standards, our big adventure was boringly tame. No drugs, no booze, no criminal activity of any sort anticipated. Just the adolescent thrill of breaking the rules with an unscheduled trip well beyond our safe suburban boundaries.
We made it well into the depths of Chicago’s south side; as I recall, we were not far from the Indiana state line. The novelty of our big escapade was beginning to fade. As we began to talk about heading home, disaster struck. A loud crack from within the engine compartment instantly replaced our teenage recklessness with pure terror.
As we limped our stricken vehicle into an all-night gas station, we were naturally terrified at the thought of our parents’ retribution. But this was hardly our biggest concern. We had heard for years about the terrible dangers lurking in the south side of Chicago. A trio of scared suburban kids alone in this strange land? We figured we were goners for sure.
Several decades have passed since we pulled into that gas station, yet I am still flabbergasted when I recall what happened next. In those days, gas stations frequently provided repair services as well as gasoline. I have no idea how many of them did so in the middle of the night, but luck was with us as this one had a couple of mechanics at work. These fellows seemed amused at our plight and our obvious anxiety, but they were nothing but kind and courteous to us as they looked over our broken car.
It seemed our troubles were just beginning. The crack we had heard was some kind of linkage breaking. Without a replacement for this part, our car (actually my friend’s “borrowed” family car) wasn’t going anywhere. Visions of tow trucks and enraged parents blurred our vision. I don’t think any of us actually passed out but I’m not 100% sure of that.
As we were anticipating our doom, one of the workers spoke up. He said that he knew a guy who might be able to put something together that would get us home. I know this sounds outrageous, but he went over to this other guy’s house, woke him up, and talked him into coming down to the station. I have long forgotten details, but this fellow did something that got us back on the road. We were beyond grateful for what seemed to be at least a temporary redemption from our fate.
We made it home, with the three of us all getting back into our homes undetected. We were spared the over-the-top parental anger had we been caught in the act, although one of the parents did figure out what had happened and informed the others. Our little expedition was not consequence-free, but we would have fared much worse if not for our saviors in that southside gas station.
Maybe we were just lucky. If we had broken down a few blocks sooner or later, maybe our outcome would have been worse. But my friends and I did wonder if we would have gotten such remarkable and timely help had our trouble occurred in our “safe” suburban neighborhood. And I learned a lesson which not only stayed with me to this day, but also helped lead me to become the Freedom Preacher: Regardless of what “everyone knows,” decent and valuable help from others can come from anywhere.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had discovered the essence of getting along.
