When moving lock, stock and barrel up to Nashville to try my hand at Country music (although I write, perform and record Folk/Rock/ music--I had hopes that my songs could be converted into Country songs), I was pulling a U-Haul trailer with my old--not vintage--1962 Chevy Impala that had a broken gas gage. I was about 100 miles outside of Nashville along a heavily wooded, lonely stretch of Interstate with smoke puffing out of the 200k miles engine that I had only just bought a few days before I set out on this adventure, as I wanted to have as much cash money with me until I found a job and a place to live, not knowing a soul in Nashville, so I sold my fairly new paid off car and other things and bought the 62 Chevy for $250.00 (It's now worth around $25,000.00). It didn't have a dent on it and no rust, but the inside looked like a hurricane tore it apart, with duct tape holding the seats together and door panel’s in-place.
Driving up this small mountain, or very large hill, the car began to spit, sputter and miss out and finally ran out of gas almost to the top, with the over-weighted U-Haul trying to pull me back down that mountain. I was able to quickly back the car over to the shoulder and kick on the parking brake, then I jumped out and jammed my safety brick under the back wheel (I carried that brick with me--just in case, while towing that trailer. It was one of those strange thoughts you don't understand the whys and wherefores of; you just do it.
I knew the car was out of gas, as I had been jotting down the miles after each gas up and was trying to make it to the next town, only about 15 miles away, and this was in the pre-dawn hours of a Sunday morning.
I opened the trunk the get the 2-gallon gas can out, when lo and behold; it wasn't there! I banged the side of my head with my fist when I remembered where it was: at the very first gas station where I had filled up before leaving New Orleans, some 500 miles behind me.
I got back into the car and watched the other cars and trucks zooming on by on their merry way to parts unknown to me, and there I sat, wondering what I was going to do next.
Just about everything I owned was in that Chevy and U-Haul, and leaving it all behind on the side of the Interstate was so far out of my thoughts that I couldn't even ponder it.
I sat there, looking over to my right at the dense wooded area, seeing myself in my sleeping bag huddled around a small campfire, eating packaged sandwiches.
Suddenly, I felt the car shake a bit and heard someone at the rear, messing around, or something. I opened the door and stepped out to find this man with such a common looking face, that five minutes later I couldn't recall it, no, not even now. He was unscrewing the gas cap as he then started pouring gasoline from his big gas can into my Chevy's tank.
I greeted him with a smile two miles wide and asked him how he knew that I was out of gas? All he said was, "It sure is going to be a nice day, isn't it?"
Standing there, dumbfounded, I watched him pour the gasoline into the car until he poured in the last drop out of his can, and then he screwed on the gas cap and smiled at me and started to turn to walk away. I tried to stop him by saying, "Say man, let me pay you for the gas and your trouble!"
He cocked his head over his shoulder as he walked back towards his pickup truck (make, model and color I couldn't recall--at all), "Just help the next guy out, and you'll pay me back in full."
I yelled out, "What's your name?" To which he just waved the back of his hand at me, got into his truck, and drove on away, up and over the top of the mountain, and he was gone.
It was enough gasoline for me to make it to the next town to fill up the Chevy at the only gas station that was just opening. I went inside the gas station, bought a coke, sat down, and tried my best to remember his face--his pickup truck color--the clothes he was wearing--anything about him, but try as I did--I couldn't.
I used to think that it never actually happened: it was a daydream from a weary all night driver or something, because I have such a good memory, certainly about faces: yes, I always say, "I may forget someone's name, but I NEVER forget a face!"
I did help out the 'next guy,' several of them, as they became many . . .
Countless family, friends and strangers have told me over the years when I relate that story, that the man was an 'Angel' sent to help me, and that I must have really been in good standing with God.
I always have tried to be in good standing with God and my fellow man, women and children, although I don't keep the scores in that regard.
And yet, I still wonder about that day--and about that guy . . .
* Dedication: For that man, whomever he was.
Jason Greywolf Leigh
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