The Good Samurai

I spent 3.4 million dollars at the grocery store.

I load the groceries into the back of my SUV.

Try to get into the vehicle, but I can’t because the key fob chooses this second to die.

I’m wearing a sweatshirt because the grocery store always feels like a February morning in Antarctica, so I start peeling off layers while trying to yank the valet key out of the key fob to stick it into the secret keyhole hidden behind the door handle.

Turns out, you can’t expose the secret spot unless you have some kind of tool.

I don’t carry tools.

Or let’s say, I use to NOT carry tools.

A Good Samaritan walks up and tries to help.

After a few failed attempts, he apologizes and walks off.

My $4.5 million in groceries are undoubtedly beginning to sweat.

Do I bust the glass?

Yes. That’s where my brain goes.

That’s 7 million dollars in groceries in the back of that Hades-hot vehicle.

If I get them out, I can ask the folks at Rouse’s to store them.

Do I call the police to open the door?

But even if I get in, will the car start?

Do I have it towed to my house, then bust the glass in the privacy of my driveway?

Better than doing it in front of the entire parking lot.

Plus, I think I’ll need a tool to bust the glass.

As previously established, I have no tools!

I call my husband.

He tells me to press this, press that, pop the handle thingie off.

His instructions make me break my thumbnail.

Now I’m BIG mad.

Back to thinking about busting glass.

I look around for a brick.

Then, the same good Samaritan walks back over.

This time, he flips open a pocketknife.

Except, it is not pocket-knife-sized.

It’s HUGE.

And its blade catches the sun and flashes like a Disco Ball.

I gasp. (I hope inaudibly, but I’m not sure.)

Because here I am, stranded outside my vehicle, sweating like I’ve just run five miles in the Mojave Desert, thinking about losing the 8.4 million dollars’ worth of groceries I just spent an hour picking out, and some guy walks up and flashes his Samurai Sword right next to my face.

You kind of get weak in the knees.

Or at least I do for a split second.

Anyway, he uses the tip of the sword… okay, fine, he uses the tip of the pocketknife to carefully and expertly pop the metal thingie off the door handle.

Success!

I shove the valet key into the hidden valet keyhole.

Woo hoo!

Suddenly, the stinkin’ vehicle comes alive!

The engine starts.

The horn begins blaring.

I jump inside the possessed beast.

The Good Samurai (yes, I’m officially changing his title from Samaritan to Samurai) tells me to do something and press something, and I sort of follow his instructions.

I think.

The horn stops.

The air conditioner blasts in my face, and I’m sure I look like Mariah Carey about to belt one of my greatest hits.

I try my best to thank the Good Samurai in the white truck.

I really do.

I’m so grateful.

Still am.

Very much so.

But I’m sure my words fall as flat as the sweat plastering my scalp.

Did I say thank you enough?

Nope.

Does he have any idea he’s now permanently listed in my gratitude journal as the Samurai?

Also, nope. (And that may be a good thing.)

Here’s to the people who show up for strangers. May they never have an unmet need for the rest of their precious lives!