Today my story is about my commute home one particular late afternoon. At the time, I drove an aging red Dodge Colt that I was constantly taking into the shop for something old to fix. No doubt you know where the story is heading.
After safely getting over the beautiful bridge and up the freeway to the City, the car chose to give up on the heavily traveled Sixth Street, which was then known as where a lot of drug addicts and homeless lived. I was about a half block from Market Street, the main drag in downtown San Francisco. I was in the left lane. Honk! Honk! HONKKKKKKK!
By then I knew the drill. When all the cars had furiously driven around me, I quickly opened my door, got out, and gave my all to push the car towards the curb. Fortunately, the car was small, light one and I was sturdy and strong.
Before I knew it, three disheveled guys ran from the sidewalk and started pushing my car. I jumped into the driver's seat and steered it to safely. I was already thinking how I could reward the guys. Six dollars was all I had.
"Are you okay?" One guy asked me.
"I'm fine." I said. "Thank you very much!"
"It's a good thing we were here," said another guy.
I pulled out my wallet. "I'm sorry I don't have much to give you."
They declined the money. Once they saw I no longer needed their help, they walked away. Angels, they were.
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