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My sister, an excellent baker, promised to make me her mini-chocolate cream pies if I dropped her off for a doctor’s appointment in a neighboring town and collected the necessary groceries while she was there.
I was thrilled because her fancy car has a seat warmer. My humble Honda, a reliable but aging friend, only shoots heat through the right side vents, meaning the driver’s side blasts cold air until the car recirculates the heated air, which usually occurs just about the time I arrive to where I am going.
No such nonsense in my sister’s car. Her seat warmer softens the bone marrow and adds the kind of magic that turns an ordinary errand into a vocation. There are some quirks, including a keyless start.
This takes some getting used to. The key fob must be near the car, but otherwise, the driver simply presses the brake while pushing a dashboard button, much like we all watched Jane Jetson do back on cartoon Saturdays in the 1970s.
I ejected my sister from the car at the doctor’s office, eager to enjoy the music without the stress of her insisting I listen to all the lyrics. This is a pressurized situation. Once, I swerved to miss a Labrador puppy trouncing toward my front tire during her favorite line in a song.
Sigh. Rewind. “Abigail, really listen this time.”
In the Ingles lot, I pushed the dashboard button, and the car obediently turned off. I patted the leather steering wheel; “such a good girl,” I cooed.
I headed toward the store when I remembered that I should lock her doors. That’s one nice thing about driving a wallflower car; nobody’s interested in stealing it. But her glorious thing, well, I had better lock it.
Except that I couldn’t. I fussed around, looking for the fob, panicked, ran back to the car to search. No fob. How was I able to drive the car all the way to the market without the fob? What kind of black magic was this?
I attempted to start the car. Flatline.
I tried my Uber app, which laughed at me when I put in the zip code, so it was clear I needed some local help. The Ingles customer service woman cheerfully told me that the town had a shuttle service I could try. It sounded dodgy, but she gave me the number, which turned out to belong to a local car dealership.
Sigh, rewind.
I Googled “shuttle service near me,” waiting the 10 or so minutes for the signal to buffer when I was treated to “A to Z Shuttle Service” on the screen. A dispatcher named Zach answered from a switchboard that was either located in a 1980s discotheque or a crypto mine, but after some one-word shouting back and forth, he said the shuttle would pick me up in one hour.
I figured I could get the shopping done in that time when Zach called back, saying it would be closer to an hour and a half. Apparently the shuttle was dodging craters on the moon or something and would take a while to get to my location.
I eyed a bag of peanut M&M’s, one of my stress-eating companions when Zach called again. His connection was so poor, he had to repeat his plan several times.
“Listen,” he croaked out. “Why don’t I just go pick up the fob from your sister and drive it out to you.” I was busy self-checking my M&Ms when his full meaning hit me. Zach was willing to leave his office – a spot I now believed was on the inside of an industrial dryer full of alarm clocks and silverware – to fix my mistake.
“Zach,” I shouted. “Yes!”
A short while later, my small-town angel arrived, dangling the fob outside his window. I ran to his car waving cash.
“I can’t accept cash,” he said, shaking his head.
“Oh, OK, well do you have the square thingy for your phone?” I asked, pulling out my debit card.
He did not.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said convivially. “It’s no biggie.”
No biggie? His efforts were generous and, in my eyes, Herculean. He didn’t judge me for watching the fob walk away from the car. He didn’t mansplain why it’s a good idea to keep the fob in the car when driving. He called me more times that day than my best friend. And now he was shooing away payment?
In the end, we used Venmo, where he charged me $5 for his services. That night, munching on my chocolate pie (I had three), I raised a forkful as homage to Zach and his neighborly ways.
People talk about the disadvantages of small-town living, mainly no access to conveniences or, in my case, good sushi. But I challenge any big-city slicker to find a hero like Zach. He was no Gomer Pyle “awe-shucks-ing” his way through town. He was a solid businessman who chose to go out of his way for a pie-loving, former-city girl simply because he wanted to help.
So thank you, Zach. I wish you a good life and a quieter office space.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.