Got Directions?

I was remembering an old story the other day about a businessman barreling through the countryside in his Lincoln Town Car. The guy is hopelessly lost and stops in a little one horse town he happens upon, pulling into a service station in the days when service stations were actually service stations. The attendant saunters out, chewing on a straw, and asks the man what he needs. “I’m lost,” the businessman confesses.

The gas station attendant squints at the driver and asks, “Do you know where you are?”

“Yeah,” the businessman says, “I saw the name as I drove into town.”

“Well, sir, do you know where you’re going?” the attendant further inquires.

“Yes, yes, of course” the driver answers, growing impatient with the questions.

“Well,” drawled the service station worker, “if you know where you are, and you know where you want to be, then mister, you ain’t lost, you just need directions.”

Sometimes directions come from the most unlikely sources.

Driving through Southeast Texas, I had made a wrong turn somewhere between Cleveland and Cut and Shoot. The sun had dropped to a distant glow as I traveled westward, and the September heat was napping on an eerie, yellowish hue, enveloping my Ford F-150 like a fog straight out of Rod Serling’s “Twilight Zone.”

Let me back up. Years ago, I accepted a position with an evangelistic organization that I quickly became convinced would go belly up. Unwilling to move my family to their location, I was commuting 6-7 hours each week, staying home as late as possible before leaving, often driving through the night and straight to work.

One afternoon--having grinned and giggled our way through Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein,” my family and I said our goodbyes, and  I, heavy hearted, backed out of our driveway, turning west, when I spied Dave, then age 8, in my rear view mirror, running toward me, yelling something.

Stopping, I rolled down my window and heard him mimicking the stilted, guttural sounds of Peter Boyle, the monster in “Young Frankenstein,” singing, “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”  

How did Dave know I needed to laugh?

I did, and then driving away, I cried.

It was later, down the road that it happened. With that mustardy film blanketing my truck, I thought I could hear Rod Serling voicing over the DJ on my radio: “David Whitlock thought he was driving to Dallas, Texas, but having made a wrong turn, he has just entered…The Twilight Zone.”

Was the Voice narrating my life journey? Describing my geographical location? Or both?

Trying to ignore the Voice in my head, I focused on the road map, not the road. And that’s when my right front tire hit something---a rock? a curb? ---causing my tire to meet a most untimely death.

.

Now, I’d not changed a tire since driver’s training. But I didn’t have to worry about it: The husband of the dear little lady from whom I had recently bought the truck suffered from Alzheimer’s, and between the time I had inspected the vehicle for purchase and actually acquired it, he had removed the spare tire and hidden it. Later, she and I would laugh about this, but that night, somewhere in the Twilight Zone between Cleveland and Cut and Shoot, there was no hint of a smile on my face.

I tried calling AAA; there is no cell service in the Twilight Zone.

It was beginning to rain when a pick-up truck loaded with about 150 Hispanics mercifully stopped long enough for me to hop aboard, and there I was, traveling with them, crushed between a large, bosomy grandmother and her several sniffling grandchildren---all singing in Spanish. I hummed along.

“Buena suerte,” they happily shouted as I jumped from the slow moving vehicle in the direction of a convenience store in the middle of nowhere.

I guzzled stale coffee while waiting for my only hope. Only one man in these parts could find a tire for me at this hour, the store manager informed me.

“He usually comes by about this time. Don’t know about tonight, though, seeing that it’s raining.”

“That’s comforting,” I thought. “How will I know him?” I asked.

“You’ll know him,” he smirked,  “looks a lot like Gomer Pyle.”

The manager was right. “Gomer” was tall, lanky, wore a crooked cap, and bobbed his neck in front of his body as he walked.

“Over there, maybe you’ll find one,” Gomer told me as we walked through his junk yard, which doubled as the front and back yard of his house.

Tripping over tires in the darkness, surrounded by a Transylvanian like fog, I suddenly had a horrible thought: “What if this was all a charade? What if the convenience store owner and Gomer are partners in crime---even serial killers? And no one has a clue where I am.”

 “Oh God,” I prayed, “don’t let Gomer kill me. Get me out of here.”

“That should do,” Gomer said as he finished changing my tire.

He wouldn’t let me pay him.

“You’ve had a hard night, just stop by sometime when you’re this way again.”

 And his kindness continued, “Now, let me give you some directions out of here.”

“Directions out,” I whispered, “a gift from the Lord.”

Miles down the road and deep into the night, I stopped at a Waffle House.

I slowly breathed in the aroma of bacon and eggs frying as the early morning crew hustled in, ready for a new day. Ignited by the promise of a crisp, fresh morning, I suddenly felt a surge of energy, and picturing Dave singing “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” I filled in the lines, “If you're blue and you don't know where to go to/ why don't you go…”

And so I did go, forward and onward---thanks to Dave singing and Gomer helping,

And closing my eyes, I let the pancakes slowly melt in my mouth.