Have you ever had an experience that, when you look back on it, convinces you there really are unseen guardians watching over you—sometimes protecting you from the consequences of your own bad decisions? This is one of mine.
When we lived in Beavercreek in the early 1980’s, we got caught up in the “family farm” movement, attending regular seminars in Hollister, California. On one of those occasions I was driving alone to Hollister. My car was a Volkswagen diesel, and in those days, finding a gas station that sold diesel fuel wasn’t very common. I was approaching Los Banos and knew that I was very low on fuel. I took the very first exit and hoped that I could find diesel nearby.
But I didn’t even make it to the end of the off ramp. The motor died, and the car coasted to a stop. I had no choice but to get out and start walking. No sooner had I gotten out of the car than heavy rain began to come down. I was soaked in less than a minute. I was walking along the off-ramp with my coat pulled over my head, and suddenly an old pickup truck slowed down next to me. A man was driving, and his passenger, a woman, rolled her window down and offered me a ride. Grateful to get out of the rain, I got in.
The first thing I did was thank them for their assistance, and they said they were happy to help. But it wasn’t long before I realized that they had a different agenda. The first thing that seemed odd was when I offered to pay them for their trouble. They said, “How much?” I thought that was strange and said, “Five dollars.” They seemed ok with that, but instead of taking me to a gas station, they said they had to run an errand in town first. What could I say? I couldn’t very well jump out of a moving vehicle. So I stifled my impatience at having already passed a gas station or two and went along for the ride.
As we rode along we made small talk, and they seemed anxious to let me know that they were proud members of the Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang. I felt no urge to ask for autographs.
Like most of the old agricultural towns in central California, Los Banos has a small downtown area with older storefronts. We pulled up in front of an old department store, and the woman went inside. While the man and I waited in the truck, he began to talk about some strange things, including how much he loved shooting his gun. I wasn’t into guns, so I just nodded and pretended to be interested. Suddenly he turned to me and with an excited look on his face said, “Do you want to see it? I have it under the seat!” I said, “No, thanks.” Great, I thought—I’m not only riding with a Hell’s Angel, but he has a gun.
By now I was really anxious to get back to my car, but I could tell that this fellow didn’t share my concern. We must have waited 10-15 minutes before the woman finally returned. I politely told them I really needed to get back on the road, but it seemed like they weren’t even listening. They said they needed to go to a friend’s house first. And I began to get very nervous.
We drove to a small subdivision of fairly new, modest homes. The man pulled the truck into the driveway of a home whose garage door was open. There was a car already in the garage. As we pulled into the driveway I saw movement behind the curtains in one of the front windows. Someone had briefly pulled the curtains apart a few inches, and I could see two partially-hidden adult faces peeking at us.
I had to get out of the truck to let the woman out, and the three of us hurried into the garage to get out of the rain. The two of them began to walk towards the door in the garage that led into the house. They invited me to go with them, but I declined. They became more insistent, not taking “no” for an answer, and again they tried to get me to go inside. Noting that their attitude was much more serious this time—almost demanding—I had a very strong impression that I was not to go into that house, and I held my ground.
The two of them went inside, leaving me alone in the garage. But I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief—not yet anyway—for l felt certain they were going to lure or force me into the house, and then they’d rob me, or worse. I should mention that this was in the days before cell phones. It felt awfully lonely to be standing there, not knowing if or when I’d get out of this mess in one piece.
After what felt like forever, they finally came out. We got back in the truck, and they drove me to a gas station where I borrowed an empty gas can and bought some fuel for my car. When I gave them the $5 as promised, they actually seemed upset that I hadn’t given them more, and they were not in a very good mood when they dropped me off at my car.
I’ll never forget how good it felt to be “free” again—away from the growing evil I felt in the presence of those people. As I replay that incident in my mind I believe that I was so anxious to get out of the rain—and so trusting in the offer of those “good Samaritans” who just “happened” to come along at precisely the right moment—that I missed a warning signal that may have been whispered to my mind at that very moment, saying, "Getting into that truck is not a good idea." And because I didn’t hear the warning, someone mercifully stepped in and protected me from the consequences of my own unwise decision.
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