Curse the Narrow Roads, continued.

8:24 AM. Somehow I managed to back the little car fifteen feet and into someone’s empty driveway, throw it into drive and turn back out on to the narrow road. As I maneuvered the turn, the car lurched forward and I heard a loud metallic thunk. It took a half second to realize that I had just driven my front passenger side wheel off the side of the road and that the car was now stuck, dangling ever so slightly over the edge of a fully ripened rice patty. Thoughts of the accident I had caused just two weeks earlier filled my head and I imagined having to call my boss and tell her I needed a tow truck to pull me out of this rice patty. Not only would I be late for work, but I would have to pay for the tow truck and possibly for repairs to the car. On top of that it was raining.

Getting out and walking around to the front of the car near the ledge, I saw that though the car was stuck, it appeared to be undamaged. Relieved as I was that the car wasn’t about to teeter into the rice patty, I was still perplexed at how to get the car out. It was a small car, about the size of a mini cooper, but because it was the front axel pinned down it meant the weight of the engine was also pressing down on the concrete. I looked around to see if there was anyone who could help, but the road was empty. I looked at my watch—8:26 AM.

As I stood on the concrete gutter at the bottom of the rice patty with my chest braced against the wet front fender of the car, ready to lift, I thought of getting dressed that morning, putting on a favorite white T-shirt and musing to myself that I ought not wear it because I always end up staining it so bad that Melissa has to soak it for two days in Oxyclean. I weighed that thought against having to call a tow truck and settled on coming home with a dirty shirt.
A few attempts at lifting the car proved futile, and my hopes of getting out of there without calling a tow truck were teetering more than the car. As I stood in the rice patty, staring at the car and scratching my chin, a door opened to the house across the street and an elderly man stepped out into the rain. He wore black oversized slacks synched tight with a belt, and it appeared he had just slipped on a white button up shirt over the top of a white tank top that I guessed he’d probably slept in. Because his shirt was not buttoned I could see the aged state of his arms and chest. “Can I help?” he asked, rolling up one sleeve.

Why couldn’t I have dropped my car into a ditch in front of a sumo wrestlers apartment, or boys college dormitory, or just about anywhere except this skeleton’s house, ‘I thought as the old man approached slowly, obviously favoring joints that had seen a lot of use. Still I didn’t have a lot of other options, so, saying a silent prayer, I motioned him over and invited him to climb down into the rice patty next to me. We counted to three, and there, at 8:30 in the morning, standing in the rain at the edge of waste high rice shoots, that old man and I lifted the car off the edge of the road, sort of.

The car moved a little, until the inside of the tire was touching the edge of the road, but we didn’t have the leverage to lift the car completely. Bracing my body against the car, I asked the old man to get in the driver seat, put the car in reverse, and back it up as I lifted. He tried to say something about not being able to drive, or not wanting to drive, but I think he could see that I didn’t want to have him down there lifting the car while I was in it, so he opened the door and got in. I lifted as he pressed the gas and the car rolled up onto the asphalt as easily as if it had been on a ramp.

I thanked the man profusely, using every polite phrase I could think of, and bowed repeatedly as I climbed out of the rice patty and back into the car. It was 8:35. I was late. There was nothing I could do. I reached for my cell phone, but it was not in my bag. I couldn’t even call my boss and tell her I’d be late. My nerves were shot, my shirt was wet and embarrassingly dirty, and all I could think of was the look of irritation that was sure to be on my bosses face as she told me in English, “You are late!”

Sure enough, as I pulled into work, My Boss was hanging her head out the second story window, apparently waiting for me to show up. She waved politely to me, but I could see in her eyes that she was already going over how she would tell me in English not to be late anymore. I was, however, curious to see would react to my story. It was her car that I was driving after all, and driving off the road into the ditch was a stupid, but perfectly reasonable excuse for being late.
When I told her what happened, her reaction was less than relieving. She seemed concerned at first, but that was only because she thought I had gotten a flat tire. She listened to my story with only passing interest and then said, “I want you here at 8:20 from now on, okay?” I couldn’t believe it. I was standing in front of her in a terribly soiled wet shirt, and had explained that Methuselah and I had just lifted a car out of a rice patty, and she didn’t even blink. I was shocked, and a bit disappointed. I figured a story like the one I just told her deserved a little bit more than she was offering, even if I was late. But no, she didn’t show even the slightest apparent interest in what I thought was an amazing story. I walked away a little dejected, but relieved and resolved: Relieved that the car was okay, and resolved that I would take no more shortcuts.