Gloves

For perhaps the first time in eight years, there is a pair of gloves in my glove compartment. There are actually four pairs of gloves in my glove compartment, all of them stamped with the Union Pacific Railroad logo. Allow me to explain.

Saturday morning I attended orientation and training to be an ESL volunteer with Mission Adelante (an outreach mission/organization just a block or two from my new place of residence in KCK). Following training, a group of the staff and volunteers had lunch together at one of the dozen or so Mexican restaurants in the area (If Kansas City were to have a "Little Mexico" the way that New York has a "Little Italy," then I have just moved there).

I parked my car right in front of Tapatio Mexican Grill, beside a guy who had the hood of his vehicle up and seemed to be having a bit of a problem. I didn't think much of it or of him, walked into the restaurant, and enjoyed some amazing authentic food. Deliciosa!

I was one of the last of our group to leave the building, and when I did I noticed that the same guy I'd seen on my way in was still there checking over his car. "Hmm," I thought, "I wonder if something is awry." Actually, my thoughts were more along the lines of, "Well, apparently something is awry; it's too bad there's nothing I can do to help, seeing as I know more about microbiology and astrophysics than I do about automechanics."

Just as I was pulling out (and feeling a little bad for not offering to help before I got in my car) the guy made eye contact with me and walked up to the open window of my Grand Am. "Hey," he said. "You don't happen to have jumper cables, do you?" "I might," I replied, wondering what had happened to the set that my dad had purchased for the Camry I drove in college and then sold to my sister when I thought I'd be living outside of the country for the next 2-3 years. I pulled back into the parking space I had been easing out of and popped open my trunk. There were no cables to be found. "Sorry," I said. "I thought I had a set." His momentarily hopeful expression deflated. "Let me call someone," I told him, reaching in my purse and pulling out my cobalt blue mobile. I dialed my new housemate, hoping he'd be around and would know where I could find some cables. He wasn't.

"Can I ask a favor?" the guy stammered. I thought he probably wanted to use my cell phone to call a friend or something of that nature. "Could you take me to the auto store? It's just up the street. I walked there earlier to buy some caps, but that wasn't the problem. I think the battery must be dead," he explained. "I mean, it's alright if you can't or don't want to, but I'd really appreciate it." I was a bit uncertain about letting a strange and rather large man get into my car, but his own hesitation offset my suspicions. I had seen the guy in the same space over an hour earlier. It was hot outside. It was the middle of the afternoon. I decided to lean toward benevolence. "Yeah," I said, with a little hesitation in my own voice. "I can do that."

He opened the passenger's door and offered me a hand. "I'm Brett," he said. "Hi Brett," I responded, taking his thick, strong hand in my own thin palm. "I'm Amanda." We drove about two blocks up the street to Advance Auto Parts. I learned that Brett worked for Union Pacific Railroad, and was the fourth generation in his family to do so. He'd never been to Tapatio before and had decided to try it during his lunch break. By the time I encountered him, Brett's break was long over and he still hadn't eaten his take away.

We chatted briefly while Brett searched for and purchased a set of cables, and then drove back to the parking lot. "Is there something I can give you or do for you?" he asked as we pulled in. "It's not a problem," I said. "Do you need any gloves?" he asked. "I have these gloves and some bottles of water from the railroad." I didn't really need either, but he seemed so eager to give me something. "If you want," I said, "but you really don't need to do that."

I parked the car and popped open the hood. Brett clipped on the cables. As I started the engine I was amused by the thought that I was taking part in the vehicular equivalent of giving CPR. "Give it a little gas," Brett instructed. I did, and his car reacted. Brett gave me a thumbs up and removed the cables from my engine. He opened his trunk, dug around for a minute and stood up bearing two six-packs of small water bottles and several pairs of gloves. "I don't know what size these are," he said as he handed me the packages, "but they have the Union Pacific logo on them and everything. They're good gloves." "These will be just fine," I reassured.

One of the managers came out of the restaurant carrying a styrofoam glass of water, which Brett readily accepted. The man offered me the same. I held up my six-packs and said I'd be fine. The manager nodded and went back inside after we assured him that Brett was fine. I stowed my water in the back seat and shoved the gloves in the glove compartment. "Thank you so much," Brett said. "No problem," I replied, sincerely meaning it. "Take care of yourself, Brett." I drove away happy that I had been able to help.

I wonder how many times my schedule and agenda have kept me from similar opportunities. I had other things to do that afternoon. I needed to go grocery shopping and running. I had an apartment to arrange and a lake house party to attend, but none of them were all that pressing. I think of Brett every time I open my glove compartment to reach for my sunglasses. The gloves are a good reminder, and will serve a purpose even if I never take them out of the wrapping.