Craig Manning and the girl who jumped in the truck

from Craig Manning, in LA:

"An illustrated story. Maybe something you could use.

I was stopped at a red light. Beautiful Southern California afternoon, window down, music up. My white Tacoma is the perfect ride for this kind of day. Especially since I upgraded the sound.

Suddenly this guy appears out of nowhere - white guy, late 60’s, white hair - he’s right in my face and asks for a ride. I am startled. I hesitate. He waves a red plastic gas can. Looks like this 

He says he ran out of gas up on Centinela and just needs a lift. 

How one behaves in such moments is some combination of current mood, natural trust, and the sum of past experiences. The mood was good, and I tend to be glass-half-full type. But then there was that last item.

One morning when I was grad student I was stopped at a light. We are talking mid ‘80s here. Palo Alto in its post-hippy, pre-tech, scruffy glory. My ride at the time was an early 70’s red Datsun pickup. Sadly I don’t have a photo of that little champ. This is a reasonable approximation though it is an earlier model.

I was crossing El Camino Real, heading in to the Stanford campus. Window down, weather warm, all good. Out of nowhere, a black woman in high heels and a red dress appears. This is not her but it is a reasonable approximation

You know how women run, or at least hustle, in high heeled shoes - it is a combination of speed and baby steps. Effective. Hard not to look. She does this as she crosses in front of me as the light turns green, waving her arms and yelling something. I stare, can’t move. She grabs my unlocked passenger side door, opens it, jumps in. Says: I need a ride. She is highly agitated. Cars behind me honking. I figure just what I need she is escaping her pimp, I’m going to get killed, and Becky will later learn of my death at the side of a prostitute. I hit the gas.

I start to explain, helpfully, that we are going on to the Stanford campus. She says, I know. I say, where do you want to go? (I don’t say that I am not going to East Palo Alto. But I think it.) She says, where you’re going. So now I am really sweating, urgently scanning the rear view for the pimp mobile. How to escape? My vehicle is not up to a chase. Neither am I, in fact.  

Her agitation subsides in a couple minutes. It turns out she means what she said - she really wants to get onto the campus. She is a hairdresser, at the salon in the student union. There is no one chasing her, she would have been late for work had she not found a quick ride in. I dutifully drop her off, she politely thanks me and heads in to punch the clock. The cab is quiet, the only evidence of our brief, intense, non-intersecting traumas is her lingering scent and my private humiliation.

Now 30 years later, it all erupts again. But this time I can choose. And I say to the old white guy: get in. He is chatty. He says hey thanks buddy but in the way they say it in movies from the 40’s and 50’s. We cruise up Centinela and there, on the right curb, is a mint 1965 Chevy C-10. The below is a reasonable approximation. It really was red and white, just like this. 

I pull in behind. He jumps out and cheerfully says, I hope good kharma comes to you buddy. Of course he says it; this is California. But I am thinking I already got it.