After school one crisp afternoon, I decided to head into the City to meet a friend. I was looking forward to the conversation, a little escape from the routine of classes and homework. But just a few miles from my destination, my car betrayed me. It simply stopped. No sputtering, no warning—just silence. I sat frozen for a moment, the hum of traffic rushing past me, cars swerving and honking as though I had chosen to plant myself in the middle of everyone’s commute. My heart pounded; I was certain I was moments away from being rear-ended.
I called AAA, hoping for reassurance. The first representative quickly assured me I’d been moved to the top of the list because of my “dangerous location.” Relief flickered inside me. But an hour and a half later, after being passed to a third rep, the relief vanished. She explained that “priority” was, in fact, a very long list. I hesitated before asking aloud how long it might take for those who weren’t priorities. Peering at Google Maps, I felt a pang of guilt and embarrassment—the endless red of congested traffic behind me, and a tiny exclamation mark right at my location. I was that little symbol, a blockage in everyone’s path.
Just as I hung up, a sudden knock on my passenger window startled me. My instincts, sharpened by too many crime dramas, bristled. I cautiously rolled the window down just a few inches.
“Do you need some help?” a young man asked earnestly, his voice calm and steady.
I shook my head. “Thanks, no, AAA is on the way.”
But he didn’t leave. “What’s wrong with the car?”
I explained how it had stopped as if it had run out of gas, though the gauge stubbornly refused to confirm that theory. I turned the key for him, and he nodded in understanding. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and took off running toward a gas station about two-thirds of a mile away.
A few minutes later, he returned, jogging back with a small gas can in hand. I rolled the window down a little more this time. He navigated carefully through the swarm of cars and poured a gallon of gas into my car. The engine sputtered and coughed but didn’t fully come to life—the incline was too much. He laid his jacket on the passenger seat and ran back toward the gas station for another gallon.
Ten minutes later, he returned with a grin and a second gallon of gas. He asked if I could give him a ride back to the station, and I agreed. It turned out he and a friend had been driving nearby, spotted me stranded, and hatched a small, unplanned rescue mission. His friend was waiting at the gas station as backup while he assisted me. We both held our breath as I turned the key again. But the car only clicked. The battery had suffered from hours of the ignition and hazards being left on.
Not to be deterred, the first young man called his friend, and together with a neighbor who had joined the scene, the three of them took on the daunting task of pushing my car uphill toward the gas station. Watching them work was awe-inspiring. They switched positions, used their legs for leverage, strained with sweat glistening on their foreheads. It was grueling, but they didn’t complain, didn’t falter, just kept pushing, step by step, until the car finally reached the gas station.
Once there, still panting, the first young man searched for jumper cables. The neighbor, who had offered help so generously, waved goodbye after receiving my heartfelt thanks. AAA eventually arrived, but by then, the crisis had already been managed by three strangers’ compassion and grit.
I tried to offer the young men money, insisting they at least buy themselves a meal. They refused. Flatly. Politely. The first man wouldn’t even accept reimbursement for the gas. I was floored.
“Do you just go around saving damsels in distress?” I asked, half-joking. Though I had been genuinely distressed, the idea of needing rescuing felt a little old-fashioned.
“No,” he said sincerely. “We’re Muslim, and it’s our duty to help.”
We shook hands, hugged, introduced ourselves, and then parted ways. Walking away from the car that no longer felt like a trap, I carried with me a profound sense of gratitude. I realized that acts of kindness don’t have to be grand gestures—they can be as simple as running for a gallon of gas or lending strong arms to push a car uphill. That day, on a busy city street, strangers became a reminder that humanity’s small, selfless acts can transform even the most ordinary afternoon into a story worth telling.
Credit: Susan Frankel
