After the family moved to North Carolina, it became something of a tradition to spend a week in a rental house out on Cape Hatteras in the early summer. When I was going to school in Colorado, I would make the 1680 mile drive from Boulder to Greensboro, and then continue on to the beach in the Dodge van. After I started work at GE in Binghamton, the tradition continued but the trip was much shorter.
The second summer in Binghamton, I must have taken off late and driven through the night. By the time I got to Virginia, I was sleep-deprived and kept making mistakes. The temperature gauge in the Mazda kept climbing dangerously: I had already rebuilt the engine twice due to overheating, so I kept a close eye on it. By the time I got to Petersburg, I concluded that I would have to stop and change the thermostat.
I found the Mazda dealership and parked on the shoulder in front, assured that it was only a short walk to the parts department. I had gotten a short way into the project when a salesman suggested that I should bring my car around back. (Doing repair work in front of the dealership is apparently bad for business.) I was happy to oblige, but when I parked out back, I found that I had left my tool kit sitting on the shoulder. I returned in time to see a guy in a red pickup truck heft my tool kit into the bed and drive off. Grrr.
But I still had a backup tool kit in the Mazda, so I finished replacing the thermostat and head off south on I-85. I hadn't gotten 10 miles before it was overheating again. So I cut north to the old highway and followed it back into town, stopping at the first auto parts store I encountered. I jumped out and went inside to see if they had the right thermostat for me. While I was there, a guy came in in a cowboy hat, with gold chains and a ring on each finger. He left before I did, and when I returned to the car, I found that my camera and watch were missing.
God damn the whole city of Petersburg and its fine, upstanding citizenry! I was ripped off twice in one day, and both times by people who were as white as me and could afford to leave my stuff alone. The red Dodge pickup of the first thief was almost brand new. Mr. Bling drove a white Cadillac, and could have bought my camera with what he wore on his pinky. The watch was a $12 K-Mart special: why did he have to take that? I decided to label Petersburg "The City of Thieves", but that didn't make me feel much better. I was depressed, and I needed a way to put the nasty business behind me. "All right," I said to myself, "if people are going to take my money, I'll find a way to give it away before they get the chance."
A short time later, I picked up a pair of hitchhikers. At that point, I didn't have much left to steal, aside from a failing automobile and a bunch of dirty laundry. I felt pretty impervious to further insults. I decided to stop at the next truck stop and offer them lunch. Both accepted gratefully, but ordered modestly (I noticed) -- not taking undue advantage of my generosity. That little token of respect did a lot to restore my faith. (Neither of them was from Petersburg.) My riders were going to Goldsboro, so I let them off in Durham. Then I headed west to Greensboro.
By the time I arrived home, I found that my small act of giving completely erased my feeling of loss from earlier in the day. Since that discovery, an act of kindness has served as my sure cure for depression.
I joined the family and we had a fine week at the beach. Some time later, I found that the real problem with the temperature gauge was that the temperature sensor had failed. I had never needed to replace the thermostat at all, and certainly not twice. After returning to Binghamton, I bought a new Minolta XG-M to replace the old one, and that was that.
Tools seem to come and go. A lot more come to me than my fair share, since commuting by bike lets me stop to pick up shiny things. I'm sure that the balance swung in my favor long ago.
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