Rounding a wide curve, Archie Jones noticed a man lying on the shoulder of the road. Everyone knew this was a rough county with a high crime rate. The local tavern, “Boozers and Brawlers,” lived up to its name, especially with underage teenage boys buying beer out of the back door and mill workers drinking their way through weekly paychecks.
A month ago, Rayfield Granger, the retired high school Principal, was having trouble late one evening changing a flat tire when he got bushwhacked by three teenage boys in a Jeep. They roughed him up and stole his wallet and cellphone.
A man couldn’t be too careful in Witchacaw County after dark.
He pulled his truck over and rolled down his window.
“You all right, fellow?”
The man groaned.
“Tell you what, I’ll go get some help.”
Instead, Archie called what passed for 911 in that godforsaken county. The line was busy so he left a voice mail and continued on his way.
Twenty minutes later, Reverend Tobias Andrews, in a hurry to get home from his weekly hospital visits, drove by without even noticing the injured man as did Missy Davis, Marketing Director for Eden Garden Senior Living, who followed several minutes later.
Mateo Lopez always drove the backroad two-lane highways at night when he traveled home to visit his parents in Mexico. After six months of landscaping, roofing and construction, he was flush with cash—enough to pay off the mortgage on his parent’s small bungalow in a village not far from La Paz.
Like the others, Mateo caught sight of the man in distress. Pulling his truck to a stop, he reached for his flashlight. The man lying in front of his truck was most likely either dead or injured. A bicycle and an army backpack that had seen better days lay on the ground nearby.
Making the sign of the cross, Mateo got down on one knee and gently squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Amigo, you okay?’
The old man groaned, “Are you the law? . . . I don’t want no law.”
“No law . . . you need help?”
Turning over to face his potential benefactor, a grizzled shadow of a man said, “What’s your name?”
“Mateo.”
“Mateo—what kind of name is that?”
“Mexico,” Mateo replied.
Raising up on his elbow, “Name’s George . . . and I reckon I could use a hand in getting my stuff together.”
“You got blood round you eye. Any broken bones?”
George rubbed his arms. “Don’t think so.”
Mateo rose to his feet. “You wait here. I get first-aid kit from truck.”
After patching George up, Mateo suggested they get something to eat at an all-night diner just down the road.
George zipped up the remnants of his army jacket. “I ain’t too hungry. Besides, them teenage boys took my disability check when they jumped me.” The old man extended his hand to Mateo. “I do thank you for stopping to help me, but I’ll just look for a campsite on down the road somewhere private.”
Mateo took George’s hand in both of his. “First, we eat . . . on me. What you say?”
Stroking his beard, George peered at Mateo. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“Why not?” Mateo smiled. You need help . . . I give help.”
George thought for a minute. “Well, then okay.”
As Mateo put the bike in the bed of his truck, he noticed George winced every time he took a step. When they pulled into the gravel parking lot of the It’ll Do Motel and Diner, to Mateo’s eye things looked better than expected. The occupants of an old RV, a station wagon and two pick-up trucks were eating inside the diner.
Working their way through greasy cheeseburgers and fries, Mateo and George said little until the apple pie and vanilla ice cream arrived.
Swallowing the last of his sweet tea, Mateo gave his belly a satisfied pat. “Mucho better.”
“George, what you do on road? Where you go?”
Taking a bite of pie, George’s eyes narrowed. “I keep on the move . . . to nowhere in particular. After getting out of the Army, I mostly like to stay to myself.”
Mateo wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “Where you serve?”
“Here and there,” George replied taking a sip of coffee . . . “but mostly there . . . in Afghanistan.”
Mateo leaned forward. “My brother was in Afghanistan.”
Looking out the window into the night, George put his coffee cup down. “I did three tours. The last one got the best of me. After I caught that load of shrapnel, I had enough. Uncle Sam agreed and put me out to pasture with a medical discharge.”
George took another sip of coffee. “Trouble was, I couldn’t find my way back. The man who came home wasn’t the man who left . . . in the end, my wife left me along with our daughter.”
“Sorry to hear that. Sorry for your loss. Sorry for your troubles.”
The waitress came by with more coffee and sweet tea.
Blowing on the hot coffee, George looked at Mateo with the hint of a crooked grin. “Maybe, I’m like the one Ralph Stanley sings about in ‘A Man of Constant Sorrow.’
“What about you? What’s your story?”
Mateo leaned back. “Mama and Papa live in Mexico. I got older brother who served in Army. He come back to Mexico. Runs . . . what you say . . . plumbing business in La Paz with wife and six children. I work in States . . . help out familia.”
George nodded as he took the last bite of his pie. Pushing his plate to the side, he straightened his camo baseball cap. “I guess it’s about time for us to say our goodbyes and be on our way.”
Mateo nodded. “I go to ‘john,’ then we say Adios.”
The two men breathed in the night air as they went to retrieve George’s bicycle and backpack from the truck.
Standing under the flickering neon sign with the “n” missing in Diner, they shook hands.
“Here, Amigo” Mateo said, placing a key and envelope in George’s hand. “You need rest and money for food.”
George stared at the room key and envelope. “I can’t take this money. Your family needs it. Anyway, why are you doing all this? Like I said before, you don’t even know me.”
Mateo looked George in the eye. “Maybe I do. Maybe there was a time when I couldn’t find my way back. Anyway, this is what my Catholic Mama would want me to do.”
“What about your own wife and children? A young man like you is bound to have family responsibilities.”
Mateo grew quiet. “No wife . . . no esposa . . . no nino or nina. I’m . . . what you Americanos say . . . gay.”
Georged squinted. “You got papers?”
Looking at his truck, Mateo replied, “I know backroads.”
George shook his head. “A gay illegal Mexican immigrant helps a washed-out army veteran down on his luck. Go figure.”
Mateo smiled. “Maybe, truth stranger than fiction.”
“Maybe,” George replied.
Reaching out, he drew Mateo close and whispered, “Even if I have lost my faith in the Almighty, all I can say is ‘God Bless You.’”
Previously published in Seeds of Change