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March 4, 2011

The Tire Iron and the Tamale
By JUSTIN HORNER

During this past year I’ve had three instances of car trouble: a blowout on a freeway, a bunch ofblown fuses and an out-of-gas situation. They all happened while I was driving other people’scars, which for some reason makes it worse on an emotional level. And on a practical level aswell, what with the fact that I carry things like a jack and extra fuses in my own car, and know
enough not to park on a steep incline with less than a gallon of fuel.
Each time, when these things happened, I was disgusted with the way people didn’t bother tohelp. I was stuck on the side of the freeway hoping my friend’s roadside service would show, justwatching tow trucks cruise past me. The people at the gas stations where I asked for a gas cantold me that they couldn’t lend them out “for safety reasons,” but that I could buy a really crappy
one-gallon can, with no cap, for $15. It was enough to make me say stuff like “this country isgoing to hell in a handbasket,” which I actually said.
But you know who came to my rescue all three times? Immigrants. Mexican immigrants. None ofthem spoke any English.
One of those guys stopped to help me with the blowout even though he had his whole family offour in tow. I was on the side of the road for close to three hours with my friend’s big Jeep. I put
signs in the windows, big signs that said, “NEED A JACK,” and offered money. Nothing. Right as
I was about to give up and start hitching, a van pulled over, and the guy bounded out.
He sized up the situation and called for his daughter, who spoke English. He conveyed throughher that he had a jack but that it was too small for the Jeep, so we would need to brace it. Thenhe got a saw from the van and cut a section out of a big log on the side of the road. We rolled it
over, put his jack on top and we were in business.
I started taking the wheel off, and then, if you can believe it, I broke his tire iron. It was one ofthose collapsible ones, and I wasn’t careful, and I snapped the head clean off. Damn.
No worries: he ran to the van and handed it to his wife, and she was gone in a flash down theroad to buy a new tire iron. She was back in 15 minutes. We finished the job with a little sweatand cussing (the log started to give), and I was a very happy man.

The two of us were filthy and sweaty. His wife produced a large water jug for us to wash ourhands in. I tried to put a 20 in the man’s hand, but he wouldn’t take it, so instead I went up to thevan and gave it to his wife as quietly as I could. I thanked them up one side and down the other. I
asked the little girl where they lived, thinking maybe I’d send them a gift for being so awesome.
She said they lived in Mexico. They were in Oregon so Mommy and Daddy could pick cherries forthe next few weeks. Then they were going to pick peaches, then go back home.
After I said my goodbyes and started walking back to the Jeep, the girl called out and asked if I’d
had lunch. When I told her no, she ran up and handed me a tamale.
This family, undoubtedly poorer than just about everyone else on that stretch of highway, working
on a seasonal basis where time is money, took a couple of hours out of their day to help a strange
guy on the side of the road while people in tow trucks were just passing him by.
But we weren’t done yet. I thanked them again and walked back to my car and opened the foil on
the tamale (I was starving by this point), and what did I find inside? My $20 bill! I whirledaround and ran to the van and the guy rolled down his window. He saw the $20 in my hand andjust started shaking his head no. All I could think to say was, “Por favor, por favor, por favor,”
with my hands out. The guy just smiled and, with what looked like great concentration, said inEnglish: “Today you, tomorrow me.”Then he rolled up his window and drove away, with his daughter waving to me from the back. I
sat in my car eating the best tamale I’ve ever had, and I just started to cry. It had been a roughyear; nothing seemed to break my way. This was so out of left field I just couldn’t handle it.
In the several months since then I’ve changed a couple of tires, given a few rides to gas stations
and once drove 50 miles out of my way to get a girl to an airport. I won’t accept money. But every
time I’m able to help, I feel as if I’m putting something in the bank.
Justin Horner is a graphic designer living in Portland, Ore. This essay was adapted from a messageboard posting on reddit.com.