Helping fallen pedestrians and bicyclists, breaking down at busy intersections during rush hour in a 1967 Jaguar, and befriending a biker who later shows up at my door in a three-piece custom-tailored Italian suit. That’s just a few of the things that happened at the beginning and end of my day on Wednesday (March 13).
Scott Hettrick
I should start by explaining that I have been without either of my two cars for more than a month now. My main day-to-day 13-year-old Dodge Intrepid finally had to be buried, leaving me with only the 46-year-old Jaguar E-Type in my garage that I hadn’t driven in three years. Of course, a week after I started driving it, the alternator went out and I had to take it to my specialist mechanic in Pasadena. I’ve actually been getting around remarkably well full-time on my bicycle that I used to use only a few days per month (stealing my wife’s car occasionally from her office parking lot for a couple hours here and there while she’s at work).
That brings me to the beginning of my day Wednesday. Pedaling to work about 8 a.m. on El Monte Avenue towards Arcadia High School, I noticed an older woman laying face down in the wide bike lane. At first she appeared to be a homeless person who picked an unusual place to sleep; her head was facing the main busy lane of traffic. As I rode closer I decided to get off my bike to make sure this person was alright. That’s when I noticed blood under her face. She turned her head towards me and spoke a language I didn’t understand. She was clearly shaken but didn’t appear to be hurt too badly. Apparently she was a pedestrian who fell while walking, or stumbled while stepping off the curb. Blood was dripping from her chin, which she apparently hit in her fall, and she also had blood on her fingers and hands, presumably from trying to brace herself when she fell. I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone and, while doing so, two kind women driving SUVs pulled over and came to offer help, one of whom spoke the victim’s language. The 9-1-1 operator advised not to move the woman from the street but we at least got her seated upright until police and paramedics arrived.
I rode on to the office thinking that was my excitement for the day, but near the end of a typically busy work day, I got news that my Jag was ready for pick-up. My wife stopped by my office to take me to the mechanic in Pasadena, and we would stop to retrieve my bicycle on the way home. Driving back during rush hour as I was entering Arcadia city limits the Jag started sputtering and then kept stalling at busy intersections. It became inreasingly hard to get restarted; lines of cars were stacking up behind and trying to get around me; and people on sidewalks began offering to help push me off the street. This is just the kind of spotlight and attention everyone loves! I did get it started a couple times but it died one final time as I was heading eastbound on Huntington Drive and I coasted it to a stop at the curb just before Baldwin Avenue — the busiest intersection in Arcadia at the peak of rush hour. I called my mechanic on my cell phone and he ordered a tow truck at his expense to come retrieve the Jag to take back to his shop. My wife brought my bike back to me to ride home after the tow truck came.
During the hour or so I was standing there as all the above transpired, a few feet away from me a car switched lanes right in front of bicyclist the driver obviously didn’t see. The bicyclist, who was wearing those shoes that latch on to the pedals, had to stop so quick that he didn’t have time to get his feet off the pedals and fell down to the pavement. I helped him a little but he was OK; just a little shaken, a little skinned up and mostly angry at the driver.
Just as that drama was playing out, a big guy rolled up on a Harley motorcycle asking me about my Jag, and wound up pulling over to talk to me and ask me if I wanted to sell it. I told him I would sell it if he paid me most of the money I have invested in it. He told me he was a “contractor” and collected cars ever since his father left him a chunk of money. He said he would send his mechanic to come check out my Jag after I got it back from my mechanic. I gave him my business card.
As the motorcyclist pulled away, a big wallet-type thing laying on the back of his seat fell off on the street. Thinking to myself, “What now?,” I ran out in the street and grabbed it and chased down the Harley, caught him at the nearby red light and gave it back to the owner. He seemed very grateful and drove off again.
As I walked back to my incapacitated Jag hoping this day would come to an end soon, two people near an ATM were pointing to me that there was something else laying in the street that apparently belonged to the Harley guy. I picked that up and it looked like a thin little pocket calendar/notepad that wasn’t very important, but it had his business card in it so I figured I’d call him when I got home.
The tow truck came and I finally started riding my bike home. I decide to call my wife and give her an update of my status. Of course, the battery of my blue-tooth earbud was dead so I had to dial and talk to her while holding the phone to my ear with one hand and steering my bike with the other (yes, I could have got off my bike but I was anxious to get home, as you might imagine). Naturally, another call came in while I was talking to my wife. It was the Harley guy calling to ask if I found anything else in the street that belonged to him; he noticed he was missing his passport and very important papers. I said, all I found was a little skinny notebook with his business card in it. He said, “That’s it!” Although I offered to ride to his home to give it to him — he told me he lived just a few blocks away — he said he had to go make dinner for his mother and would call later and come by my house at 8 p.m. to pick it up. I reluctantly agreed to have the big Harley guy come to my home.
True to his word, the Harley guy called and came to our front door at 8 p.m. Now he was wearing fancy Italian shoes and a three-piece custom suit with his name stitched inside, which he noticed me recognizing as a famous Italian crime family name. “Yes,” he said, “It’s that family name.” (I’m omitting the name for obvious reasons.) But he assured my wife and I that none of his family ever liked the most notorious of their kin (you would know his name instantly) because he broke the family code prohibiting dealing in drugs. He further tried to reassure us by saying, “We’re clean now.”
He handed my wife a candy bar as a gesture of thanks and said, “If there is anything I can ever do for you, let me know.” With that, he turned and left, leaving my wife and I looking at each other wide-eyed.
With that, even though it was only 8:10 p.m., we resolved not to answer any phone calls or the doorbell or leave the house for the rest of the evening in an effort to make it through the remaining several hours of the day with no further adventures.
— By Scott Hettrick