jumpstreet

Picture the scene: after waking up obnoxiously early to get to the airport(when I say obnoxious, you say 4:45am) to try to avoid traffic because of this lovely union strike they're having in NY, arriving back to the Sunshine State to find one of my bags flew on a separate flight, driving my wonderful minivan to hear the lovely RATTLING of my muffler as it fell off it's support . . . not wanting to drive too far, we pulling into an auto parts store next to a van blaring Latino-flavoured sounds (when I say blaring, you say obnoxious). I run in to get some wire to hopefully McGuyver it, and as I already opened the package, the gent in said van pops out and assesses my situation. Turns out, he's a mechanic of sorts and he pulls out a plastic ramp for my van to get elevated on so we can look under. He gives me cardboard to lay down on. It wasn't too bad underneath. The muffler didn't drag along long enough to get damaged. He told me to run back into the store and buy replacement rubber supports. That done, we laid underneath the van--he did the right side, I did the left. And in five minutes, no more dragging muffler. By appearances, I wouldn't have given him a second glance. Now, I call him my Angel in a van blaring Latino-flavoured sounds. I want to say his name is Tony and he lives in lot #50 of a trailer park in K-Town. We offered him a 10-spot, he told us he didn't help for money. He told us to say a prayer for him next time we went to church. We left the money in his car and made our way back home after a long fucking day . . . I'm grateful for his assistance. That was real fucking cool.