The Tale of the Ensnared Car

Every time I try to sit here and write for you it’s like I am a blank canvas. I guess the good thing about blank canvases is that they can turn into anything. . .

My car was stuck in a parking space since last Monday. On Sunday, we went to try to get it out of the spot because it was next to a restaurant (one I used to work at no less) and I didn’t want them to tow the car. You see, when I worked at this place, the owners were rude and payed hardly enough to put gas in my car for school. What’s funny is that I wound up skipping town during my employment there and found myself stuck in Chicago for a few days. That’s a story for another day.

Anyway, we couldn’t move the car. It wouldn’t budge no matter how hard my man pushed or how far down I pressed the gas petal – nothing worked. Baffled on what to do next, I saw out of the corner of my eye a shovel and bucket of ice being handed off to my boyfriend. It was from the owner of the restaurant.

Isn’t it funny how you think you’ll never see these people again or that you’ll never need them? She started to help shovel around my tires and throw salt. Then she started to help my boyfriend push the car. We still couldn’t get it out. There she went again, all 4ft 9inches of her, hacking away at the ice under my front tire.

We tried again. Nothing. At this point, I was ready to pack it in and leave the car there another day. My boyfriend was too. His constant uttering of, “It’s not gonna move” really gave that away. Then, out of nowhere, comes a tall, dark skinned guy (probably around my age)  who asked if we needed help. Of course we took him up on the offer.

After a few minutes of pushing, shoveling, hacking, and salting, we finally managed to free my car from the parking spot that ensnared it. Both my boyfriend and I thanked the owner of the restaurant and the boy who came to our aid. This was one of those times that I wish I carried cash with me just to give them both something for their troubles.

I kept wondering if the restaurant owner remembered who I was the entire time. I suppose the moral of the story is this: you never know when you’ll need help; nor do you know who we be the one to provide that help.


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