The kindness of strangers helps balance the psyche
The most memorable line in “A Streetcar Named Desire” is when Blanche DuBois, after a mental breakdown, turns to a doctor and matron taking her to an institution, and in her most genteel Southern fashion says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
I love that line. I live that line.
Car trouble inevitably makes that line a truism in my life.
But the good Samaritans who so often help me don’t always look like good Samaritans. Sometimes they look more like scary Samaritans.
Not the two Mormon missionaries on their bikes who stopped on a cold, wet night to change my flat tire last January. They didn’t scare me. In fact, having them stop was comforting.
But a while back, a flat on the freeway left me stranded and the man who stopped was covered in tattoos and looked positively ferocious. The fact he had a young boy with him was reassuring, since I didn’t think he’d bop me on the head in front of his son.
On Monday, my knight in shining armor was carrying two bottles of beer in a brown paper bag, accompanied by his Chihuahua, Oreo.
I’d been visiting the Wetlands Park Nature Preserve with historian/environmentalist Liz Warren and we grabbed a bite at the Omelet House in Henderson.
As I am wont to do myself, Liz was yakking away and put her car keys in her jacket, then took off the jacket and locked it in the car. Fortunately, she left the window down a few inches.
Our waitress and a busboy both tried to help.
As we struggled to get into the car with a hanger, a shabby-looking man came across the parking lot and said he’d once been a repo man, and he thought he could help. He succeeded. While I walked Oreo and made sure nobody went off with the beer bag (two important duties), he snagged Liz’s jacket and we were headed on our way.
Looks can deceive. The kindest people can look rough, and the roughest people can look kind.
But over many, many, many years, I’ve never been stranded when I’ve had car trouble. Always, someone has stopped to help.
Outside Pahrump once, on a road trip with a friend, a man stopped and offered to put on the spare. Unfortunately, we’d had a flat at the start of the trip to Ash Meadows and the spare was already on the car.
He drove us back to Pahrump. We bought a new tire and he drove us back, put it on the car and left us filled with gratitude and wonderment at the time he devoted to being kind.
Every time I take a road trip through Nevada or Utah, whether alone or with a friend, I know someone will help. However, I have invested in Gunk tire sealant in case there are no strangers in the area to be kind to a woman who seems to have more troubles with flat tires than the average Jane.
Help always comes, and almost always from strangers. It can’t be fun for them to get dirty changing a tire, or delaying their own trips. They’re not police or highway patrol officers or any service that’s paid to help. They’re just men who opt to stop and help.
Sometimes, rather than dwell on murders, home invasions and rapes in Las Vegas, it helps balance the psyche to remember the kindnesses from strangers.
If you’re one of the helpful people, know that people remember your kindness with far more clarity than you might think.
Sure, there will be stories of people who needed help and didn’t get it, but let’s be positive. Otherwise, we’ll go as mad as Blanche DuBois.
Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0275. She also blogs at lvrj.com/blogs/morrison.