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Unlikely Angels 3 Feet Closer to Hell

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Dallas Boyd
Dallas Boyd

I imagine there are various uses for Crack Heads and other drug addicts. But the other night I discovered a new one. My car broke down in the middle of town, late at night. It just so happens that I have affectionately nicknamed this quaint Central American town “3 feet closer to Hell.” The idea being that the town is below sea-level and well… there are other reasons.
I broke down right outside Hotel El Pueblo, which is the kind of place where prostitutes get their throats slit. (Because that’s where a prostitute got her throat slit). Real convenient. I thought “I’ll just sit here and let the car settle for a wee bit before I try to get it going again.”
(The truth is, I was busting to pee real bad but couldn’t leave the car because the windows were stuck down and if I left, it would have gotten ripped off - so I quickly tried to reassess my options without pissing my pants). 
I sat stranded by the side of the road, taking in the exotic nightlife.
An anorexic crack head wearing a reflector vest (he apparently moonlighted as a traffic director) walked past and pushed in all my side mirrors. I gave him a stern look, reached outside and popped them out again. A couple starting making out against the back of my car. I considered saying “oi!” in an authoritive tone, but as that was the most romance I had had all day, I decided to gaze voyeuristically at them through the rear-vision mirror and enjoyed the show for a while. A car parked in front of me backed into the reflector vest-wearing cracker (who was already limping badly) and crushed his legs between the front of my car and the back of the other. The drug addict howled for a while before the car pulled out of reverse and released the mans legs. A group of teenage boys gathered on the side walk and hissed at me for a while until they got bored and wandered off. Tossers. Despite the reasonable amount of “normal” people walking by, there was no potential help.
By this time, not only did I really need to pee, but I was also unbearably thirsty in this weird midnight heat - a pretty annoying combo, making me sweat all over my new cowgirl shirt. If only I could duck into El Pueblo for a quick trip to the loo and that dark dirty bar. But despite my diligently allowing the car to rest, surprisingly it still did not want to go.
I called for help, who upon arrival, helpfully concurred that yes, the car would not start. Then, suddenly out of the sticky night appeared the Reflector Vest Crack Head (again). He said he knew a mechanic and went to get him. Shortly afterwards, “Mechanic” appeared, riding a red bicycle, wearing a Les Miserables t-shirt. Another homeless drug addict, starving to death of course. Reflector Vest pushed the car down the street, despite his damaged legs. (As I skipped into the legendary El Pueblo for long-awaited relief). The Mechanic got the car going. Reflector Vest curled up on the pavement holding his legs in pain. They said they would help me anytime and we shook hands. I paid them, feeling sad that they money would be spent on drugs.
I guess, even if you are “3 feet closer to Hell” there are still some unlikely angels to be found. How are we repaying them?

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