The Screw Driver

He flagged me down as I made the turn into the driveway. He looked bad and waved his arms like some overboard sailor sending S.O.S. to a passing freighter. I thought twice but stopped anyway. I noticed he carried a long screw driver, one heavy steel tool, over a foot long, along his thigh, like a sword.

I stopped, rolled down the window, and he staggered over to the car.

“I’m dying, man. You got any water?” he asked, bending down to see me through the window.

I rummaged around behind my seat and found a water bottle that still had some Gatorade in it. I passed it through the window to him and he fiddled with the top of it, desperately.

“How do you work this thing?”

I thought about explaining how to work the bike bottle but said “Just unscrew the lid.”

He gulped at it and immediately spit it out. 

“There something in here? This is … bad!”

I felt embarrassed. I had used the bottle on a bike ride and had not cleaned it out yet.

“Just dump it out.”

“There a store around here?” he asked.

“Circle K a couple of blocks down.”

“I need water, man. You think I can make it?”

It was 98 degrees and a long few blocks, more like half a mile, to the store.

“I’ve got some bad blisters. Been walking all afternoon.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

I moved my book bag, papers to be graded, and bike helmet from the seat. He got in.

“Do appreciate this. I’m from North Carolina. Used to make guitars, but now just tryin to get a job. Guy left me today after I worked all day. He’s got a reputation for tryin guys out for a day and then not payin. Shoulda known better.”

He coughed and said something about his foot being crushed as I turned the car around and gunned the engine. 

“Only have my big toe and then a bit wider down to my heel,” he said, showing me the width of his reduced foot with his hands in a clapping position or half prayer. 

I merged with traffic and moved through the gears, turned up the A/C. I thought about times when I have been injured, how close I was to amputation or permanent disability. I also noticed the "check engine" light, back on again for the fourth time in as many months. Credit card bills, mortgage payments, down-sizing at work ran like a serial litany across my awareness.

“Sorry about that water,” I said, feeling a bit guilty. I would have drunk it, but most people, even thirsty, abandoned day laborers, have higher standards than I do.

He set the screw driver down along the door side of his seat and offered his hand and said his name. I took it and felt a strong grip, too strong, and gave my name in return. 

I sped up and wondered what I should do, how much time I had before I had to get home and cook dinner.

“Where are you going?” I asked, wondering how much further he had to travel. 

“Midtown, near Grant and Alvernon.”

“Tell you what… I’ll stop and get water and then take you to Grant.”

“Sure would appreciate that.”

At the store, I rinsed out my stinking bike bottle, added some ice, and water, and went to the counter. 

“No charge for water, Hon,” the cashier said.

My passenger, overheard that before filling a cup with ice and water, downing it, and refilling it.  He raised his cup to the cashier. She smiled and waved him out the door.

He did look pretty rough – red, unshaven face, greasy blonde hair in a pony tail, stooped posture, grimy blue jeans, stained T shirt. In some other life he might have been a Willy Nelson or an oil derrick rough-neck, or me, given a few more doses of bad luck, lost chances, less help from others.

I went out to the car and wondered if I was being naïve. Many people would say this guy was a total bull shitter and leave him by the side of the road. I did not want to hear stories about how he got to be where he was, but just kept going with my plan to take him closer to his place.

“I been working all my life. Picked up a wrench when I was six years old,” he said.

“What kinds of guitars did you make?”

“Electric mainly. Company in North Carolina called Zion. They shut down though. Now I spray mostly.”

He took a long pull at his drink and looked straight ahead.

“I’m out of practice though and that guy today, ball buster, just watched me work all morning and then said ‘you’re not going to work out’ and then left, left me up there at that big resort.” 

I nodded as I wound through the city grid, behind the strip malls, trying to find his cross streets. 

“Need the work though. I come here thinking I could make it, but it’s hot, hotter than I’m used to, compared to North Carolina and all.”

“You can pull over here,” he said. 

He opened the door, swung his leg out, and picked up the big screw driver.

“Here,” he said, “you take this.”

I looked at the tool. It was a valuable one, a Craftsman.

“No. Thank you. I’ve been where you are,” I said, which was partly true, but not totally. “Just pass it along when you get a chance.”

He nodded then and told me to call him  if I knew anyone who needed help. He said his phone number and I repeated it back to him as if I would remember it before I put the car in gear.