|Late one rainy April night,
Max Woodruff, a
very ordinary, and mild-mannered salesman from Phoenix, Arizona is traveling
a rural Texas highway miles from anywhere. Max lives a simple life: wife,
two kids, a dog named Sadie.
That was all about to change as the storm thundered down on the dark two-lane highway, and Max suddenly finds himself skidding to the shoulder of the road, his rear tire blown.
Never one to panic, Max calmly removes his coat and tie and clambers out of his car. He opens the trunk, tugging the spare and the jack from their cubby holes.
Already soaking wet, hes about to start jacking up the car when he discovers that he doesnt have a tire iron. Theres no changing the tire without it.
He stands up and looks around. The world seems suddenly deserted. Not a car in sight, only darkness and downpour in all directions. Suddenly though, he sees in the distance, through the storm, a light.
Its the porch light of an old farm house,
about a half mile down the road.
As he trudges on, he cant help thinking:
The Farmer will smile and say that wont be necessary, and then invite me in to warm up and dry off, while his wife offers me fresh-baked cookies, and a cup of cocoa with a marshmallow in it. Id keep telling them it wasnt necessary and hell hold up his hands and say that the good Lord provides for good people. Well become instant friends.
Hell feel bad because his phone is
out from the storm so hell ask if Id like to spend the evening.
Ill politely decline and again gratefully request the tire iron so
that I can fix the flat and be on my way. I have a wonderful family too,
and theyll be worried about me.
Probably at that point the Farmer would
suddenly look a bit sad and tell me that hes sorry, but what with this
weather and all, his old truck probably
make it through the mud, and he wouldnt want to risk breaking an axle.
In other words, hes not about to get off his fat ass to help
a poor city boy in trouble!...
The swirling wind slaps a gooey glob of leaves
and mud against Maxs forehead. Hes too wrapped up in his thoughts
to even wipe it off.
...Yeah, and right about then I betcha
the Farmer's wife will waddle in with her warm batch of cookies. Fresh baked?
Yeah, right... Ill bet theyre nothing more than those tasteless
bake & brown lumps of gray Playdoh that you nuke in the
micro-wave for five minutes and pass off as home made. Probably charge me
a buck apiece like some low-rent Mrs. Fields!
By now, Max was almost up to the porch. He
was so hot under the collar that when the rain hits his neck its turned
to instant steam.
Ill bet the only thing this
cesspool-in-overalls does all day is sit in his dingy one-room shack, peaking
through the greasy fingerprint-stained curtains, hoping... just hoping for
a guy like me, who works damn hard for every penny he makes... to blow a
tire and come crawling... crawling through his stinkin barnyard mud,
begging for a tire iron. Then once I have it and Im back out there
all alone in the dark having had to leave my whole damn wallet for collateral,
you can bet hell be on the phone to the Home Shopping Network buying
up every damn Capidamonte Elvis and Cubic Zirconia belly bracelet they have...
using my Visa card!
Max knocks hard on the door.
You selfish, greedy
As you can see, it obviously wasnt the
Farmer (or the tire iron) that turned Max into a soggy, Brooks Brothers
clad Mike Tyson. Max did it to himself.
Sometimes things are just what they seem.
Harmless little moments that we blow so out
of proportion that we only end up hurting ourselves... and
our jobs... and worse, giving our bosses the power
to rule (and ruin) our lives.
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