The Samaritan

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Jesus of Nazareth told the parable of the Good Samaritan in the New Testament. I recently discovered that not all attempts to be a Good Samaritan are appreciated by those you are trying to help. As I traveled along Interstate 80 headed to Wamsutter, Wyoming, I reflected on an experience I had in the Atlanta, Georgia airport four years ago today. A man in the restroom was concerned about a tick’s head that had broken off and remained burrowed into his groin when he tried to remove the tick. The head of the tick was tucked up beyond the man’s vision and he needed someone to help extract it. His urgency and fear were based on the fact that his best friend was currently recovering from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that he had contracted from a tick. As I chuckled to myself about the experience of helping this man I passed a lady in distress on the side of the road. She was just beyond mile marker 123, fifty miles west of Wamsutter.

The Story . . .

The lady was all alone, standing by what appeared to be a demolished Yakima car top carrier. Her car was parked fifty yards further down the highway. I pulled to the side of the road and walked back to see what I could do to help. She was hyperventilating and I thought she might pass out. I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, “I will stay with you until we get you on your way.” She thanked me for offering to help and asked if I would get her car and back it up near the car carrier. I asked if the keys were in the ignition and she said, “Yes.” As I began to walk back to where her car was parked I realized she was following me. She stayed about eight feet behind me. When I was almost to her car she said, “Oh never mind, I’ll drive the car myself.”

As she got into her car I decided to back my car up and position it so it would block us from oncoming traffic on the freeway as we gathered up the shattered remains of the Yakima car top carrier and her belongings. The lady backed her car up like she was going to a race. As I came around the rear of my car she popped out of her car and hurried to position herself between me and the damaged Yakima carrier. Once again she appeared very nervous. Holding up both hands she said, “Please stay back. All these items are very personal to me. I want to load them myself.” I was somewhat shocked but did as she requested. That was the first I noticed that there weren’t any contents of the car carrier scattered around the ground. Turning her back to me she pulled a large black bag from under the carrier. It was stuffed full of something. It was so heavy she was half carrying and half dragging the bag. “Are you sure you don’t want some help?” I asked. She didn’t respond or look back at me. When she tried to lift the bag into the rear of her silver SUV, five clear plastic bags toppled out of the black bag.

Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. Before I took time to second guess my decision, I stepped back to my car and pulled out my hand gun and pointed it directly at her. “Move away from the car. Put your hands behind your head and get down on your knees,” I shouted. For a long moment she just stood there in shock and stared at me. “Do it now!” I demanded. Slowly she moved back away from the car and knelt on the ground. Her eyes narrowed in on me like dark daggers. I took out my cell phone to call 911. “You can have anything you want if you will let me go.” She must have thought I was considering my choices. “You can have anything,” she said in a pleading voice as she emphasized the word anything. I could have said something clever but I didn’t feel clever at the moment. I had never pointed a loaded gun at someone. Well except for the time I shot another boy in the butt with a twelve gauge shotgun. I did remove the lead shot from the shell first. I thought it would just make a loud bang but the packing wad I unknowingly left in the shell smacked him in the right buttocks. We both thought he was dead. Today I didn’t want anyone dying over bags of marijuana.

This was serious business and I was more nervous than I first realized. I didn’t want to accidentally squeeze the trigger as I kept the gun pointed at her while I held the phone and dialed emergency. My hand was shaking as I pressed the buttons. “Give me the Highway Patrol,” I said when the operator came on the line. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles from Wamsutter. I’m almost certain that a lady I stopped to help on the side of the road is transporting marijuana,” I said with a voice that probably sounded like I had been relieved of the crown jewels. If looks could kill, my new lady friend would be a murderess. Fearing that she might have a concealed weapon, I told her to lie face down in the dirt with her arms spread out away from her body. She acted like she was going to ignore me but then she gradually repositioned herself facedown. I felt sorry for her. Her black hair covered part of her face and her head was turned to the side. I could see that resignation and tears had taken the place of anger in her expression. I wanted to ask her about her life but I left her alone. The wind was blowing so I put my coat over her until the highway patrol officers arrived.

The officers came out of their vehicles with guns drawn and pointed at me. “Put down your weapon,” shouted one of the officers. I wasn’t about to put my gun in the dirt so I laid it on the hood of my vehicle. “Step away from the car,” commanded the officer. It took better than an hour to get everything sorted out. There was two hundred and fifty- five pounds of high grade marijuana in the car. There was also a loaded semi-automatic hand gun and a quantity of cash. The woman’s car was towed and she took a ride in the rear of the Highway Patrol vehicle. When it was all over I was left there alone on the side of the freeway with the busted up Yakima car top carrier and roof rack. I disassembled the roof rack, loaded it in the back of my suburban and drove the last fifty miles to Wamsutter as I thought about the events of the last hour and a half. I was sure that the lady in the back of the police vehicle was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? Most of us would change something if we could act with the knowledge of hindsight. But I wouldn’t change turning her in. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.

The Truth . . .

Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. I was considering several options all at once. My gun was lying on the front seat of my suburban. I could hold her at gunpoint until the Highway Patrol arrived but I quickly dismissed that idea. I made the decision when I first obtained my concealed weapon permit that I would never point a loaded gun at someone unless I was prepared to shoot them. In other words I would not use a gun to intimidate someone into doing what I wanted them to do. I wasn’t about to shoot this woman over marijuana no matter how I personally felt about the havoc that drugs cause in peoples lives.

As she struggled to get all the bags of marijuana back into the rear of the SUV, I began memorizing everything I could about her. The SUV was silver and the license plate was Nevada 08120. Her hair was died jet black and cut straight just above her shoulders. She wore hip-hugger jeans that were bulging from squeezing into a size too small. Her top was a white blouse with the top two buttons unfastened. She wore an unbuttoned blue denim long sleeve shirt over the blouse with the shirttail out. On her feet were white sneakers with no socks. Her ears were pierced and adorned with small delicate gold loops. She wore black eyeliner and her eyes were grey blue. She had fake fingernails painted to match the color of her lipstick which was a soft red. Her hands were older looking than her face which led me to believe she'd had cosmetic surgery. Guessing her age would be more difficult than describing what she looked like. I targeted her to be at least forty years old. She was about 5’6” and weighed 140.

Closing the hatchback door to the SUV she turned to me and said, “What will your silence cost me?” I just stood there without responding. “You can have anything you want,” she said. “Let me help you get your roof rack off the busted car carrier. I can disassemble it in three or four minutes and it will fit inside your car,” I said. “I don’t have time to wait. I have to go right now. You can have the roof rack for your trouble,” she said. “It was no trouble,” I responded. She came over to me, reached out her hand and said, “What is your name?” Shaking her hand I said, “Jerry Grubbs.” “Is Grubbs spelled with one “b” or two?” she asked. “With two,” I said. “I’ll remember that,” she said as she turned, ran to her car and drove away.

At 4:09 P.M. I opened my cell phone and dialed 911. “Please connect me with the Highway Patrol.” “What is your emergency?” the operator asked. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles west of Wamsutter. I just helped a lady who is transporting what I believe to be marijuana,” I reported. I gave the officer all the pertinent information and went to disassemble the roof rack that the lady had left behind. If she had said she would give me the roof rack for my silence, I would have left it there. A few minutes later a Highway Patrol vehicle pulled up next to my vehicle and questioned me to verify that I was the one who made the 911 call. After repeating the information and providing a description of the car and woman the officer hit his lights and departed at a high rate of speed.

Traveling on down the road toward Wamsutter, I recognized the same silver SUV heading the opposite direction. At 4:34 I called 911 again and reported her location at mile marker 137 traveling west. At 6:45 P.M. the officer called to give me an update on her arrest and what was found in her vehicle. “Would you be able to identify her in a lineup?” the officer asked. “Yes,” I replied. “It would have made our job easier if you had followed her at a distance and continued to report her location,” the highway patrolman suggested. “If I ever stop to help a lady in distress on the side of the road and she turns out to be transporting an illegal substance, I’ll do just that."

Epilogue . . .

Our lives are sometimes filled with wouda, couda, shudas but in the heat of the moment we make decisions that with hindsight we would do differently. I was sure that the lady was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? I have no regrets about the way I treated her. I do wish that I had followed her to ensure that she was apprehended. But it all worked out okay. Well, I guess that depends on your point of reference. I’m sure that the lady doesn’t share my comment about things working out okay. But if I had it to do all over again I would still call the Highway Patrol. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.

Our behavior can be driven by a desire to appear more or better than we actually are. When I examined the option of using a loaded gun to force the lady into compliance, my motive would not have been her apprehension but glory seeking. There are enough glory seekers without me joining the lineup. In a brief moment I saw how using my gun would most likely play out in the apprehension of the lady. I saw every detail of that situation in the story shared above. But the thought that came to my mind was one that a good friend shared with me seven years ago: “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” I thought of that very saying as I contemplated my choices. Just because I had a gun, just because I had the element of surprise, just because I had her at a disadvantage, just because she was breaking the law didn’t mean I should become her enforcer. Although I called 911 and reported her, if I saw her on the street tomorrow, I would not feel inclined to cross over to the other side to avoid her. In fact, I would ask her if she would like to have her Yakima roof rack back.

Good & Bad

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.

Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.

Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.

That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.

Smoke In My Eyes

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.

In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.

As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.

A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.

Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store

To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.