Worn to protect him from passing motorists, Joe’s roadside armor now includes a surgical face mask.
By Brooke Loomis
“What’s the color and model of your car?” Joe asked over the phone.
“Red Nissan Murano,” I answered.
A few minutes later, he confidently drove his truck the wrong direction on a one-way street and parked in front of my Murano. He turned on the orange flashing light on the truck’s roof, signaling to the neighbors that my car was asking for the attention of AAA.
I waved hello, and he responded with a smile. Then he slipped on a blue mask and matching plastic gloves—a proper greeting in our current situation. He stepped out of the pickup truck. His full armor consisted of a neon yellow shirt and navy pants with complimentary yellow stripes around the ankles. His face was soft and creased. His gentle demeanor exuded age and wisdom.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I got caught in the wind and rain this morning. The trees were blowing, and branches were coming down. I didn’t think I would make it out of the town I was in. But how can I help you?”
…
He stood with a puzzled look on his face, most likely from my subpar explanation of my car problems. He lifted the hood of the Murano, carefully inspected the insides, and forgot the world around him. He needed focus to properly care for the patient.
Joe lifted a large dark box out of his car and proceeded to connect thick wires from the box to the patient’s energy source.
I hoped for a spare heartbeat in the box. For the capability of transferring life. For the doctor to use the necessary time and equipment until he could say, “ma’am, surgery went well. The patient is expected to make a full recovery.”
…
I sat in the driver’s seat, key in ignition and gave it a twist. Nothing but a small growl.
“We’ll let it charge a bit. Give it about 10 minutes.”
He sounded confident, assured. He had no skin in the game, but his reputation was on the line. I decided to trust his knowledge.
We talked while the patient battled for his health.
“I’m actually retired,” Joe said. “The company asked me to come back after someone quit this week. So, I’m just doing this for fun but today was very busy.”
…
I sat in the driver’s seat and proceeded: ignition, key, twist. This time the patient awoke with a roar. A full recovery. Thank you, Joe.
He smiled and wasted no time with discharge testing.
“I’ll see what the car’s battery life is.”
Grunts and groans emerged from below the hood. “My fingers are too fat, and my eyes are too old for this,” he said, as he fiddled with an electronic screen.
After many minutes, Joe apologized for the unpredictability of his tablet and his electronics ability. He disregarded the patient’s post-test and proceeded to state the necessary aftercare.
“You’ll have to run your car for at least 20 minutes every other day. Letting it sit for long periods of time drains the battery.”
I thought about my car sitting in the street for weeks. Untouched and unused. The stay–at–home order has kept me inside. This has never been an issue. The restriction of mobility and freedom. My car used as a means to socialize, interact—the bridge to humanity. Now it sits on the street below me, aching and lonely.
Joe got back into his truck. He sat in the safety of the truck’s perimeter. Gracefully choosing to move, socialize, and interact. Joe removed his mask and waved goodbye from behind the glass.