No sooner had I declared what I thought was my one criminal act than a friend reminded me of another youthful indiscretion. Again, this is not at the same level as Martin, the protagonist from Something Missing, but it’s a decent story that I thought I would share.
Hopefully, this is the last story of criminal mischief that a friend will recall.
When I was nineteen years old, I was living on my own. My mother was impoverished, and I hadn’t spoken to my father in a very long time, so I was truly alone, taking care of myself.
I am working without a net.
One day in June of 1990, I went to Laconia, New Hampshire, to spend the weekend with a girl. As I was driving home on Sunday, near the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border, a tire on my 1978 Chevy Malibu blew out. Not only did the tire go flat, but it came apart, throwing rubber all over the road. I was in the middle of no-man’s land, miles between exits, and the tire needed to be replaced entirely.
To make a long story short, I eventually used the last of my cash to purchase a new tire, rolling it miles and miles down the highway and putting it on the car myself—quite an ordeal and a story in itself, but not for today.
As I climbed back in my car to complete my trip, I looked at the gas gauge and realized it was almost empty, and I was still about three hours from home.
This was in the days before cell phones, and even if I had one, there was no one I could call for help. I had one friend who would have been capable of helping me, but on this particular weekend, he was also away. I was more than 100 miles from home and on my own. I needed to find a way to fill my gas tank.
I took the next exit off the highway, drove to the nearest gas station, and offered the attendant collateral for gas:
My luggage, my watch, and my ID. I’d pay him double when I returned with the money.
He refused.
At this point, I didn’t even have enough fuel to make it to the next gas station, and as I sat in my car, considering my options, my eyes caught a hold of my McDonald’s briefcase. I was managing a McDonald’s in Milford, Massachusetts, and had left for New Hampshire from work the previous Friday. My briefcase and uniform were still sitting in the back seat.
Donning the uniform and grabbing the briefcase, I walked from the gas station into the nearest neighborhood (quite a hike) and began going door-to-door, claiming to be collecting money for McDonald’s Children’s Charities.
At the first house, a lady gave me three dollars. An older gentleman gave me a twenty-dollar bill at the second house, and I was set. I couldn’t believe it: two houses and more than twenty dollars. Gas was about a dollar a gallon back then, so I had more than I needed to get home.
As I hiked back to the station, I promised to replace the money I had just acquired on behalf of the charity in spades.
So I frequently drop a dollar into those collection containers when visiting a McDonald’s almost every morning before work (I’m quite fond of the Egg McMuffin). Not counting the loose change that I frequently toss in, my total of single dollar donations is $631 since the day I went door-to-door for gas money.
It doesn’t make what I did right, but I like to think that it at least makes me even.
