much obliged, much obliged

i think:
there are some great writers out there that will forever support my efforts through their words. "i found myself in harlem, with $1.50 in my pocket, no job, but plenty of hope." -Zora Hurston.
i know:
I remember every single moment in my life where I had to push a car.

1st time:
The first time. My dad's red Ford Fremont.The corner of White street, and Mabury. One block away from our home. I was laughing out loud, but determined to push, and happy to be close to home. I pushed hard. It was easy.
I can only guess that my dad was concerned, perhaps frustrated over another stress to fix, and more money to allocate. He pushed too, but steered cautiously.
I knew my older brother was embarrassed. Yelling, grimacing, then panting. He pushed tiredly.
It was a magical moment, and sent us on our way home, and also, to where we had to be.

2nd time:
The parking lot at school. In the fading Nissan. After dropping off Cindy and what's her name off from a day of cutting class and mall-ratting it. I was just supremely glad that the car had died after the girls were gone, but had no idea how to get myself back going. Then came John. John, the football linebacker, the white dude, the korean homie, the happy hapa, the bitter wrestler, the I-gotcha-back friend. Then came John Britz, who perhaps at the time was pumped up on alcohol and roids, and gladly pushed my car all the 2.5 miles home.