Asshole of the Year - Nice Guy of the Year

Rated E with L for some rough language.

For us Texans, we always want to drive a big car. We love our SUVs, trucks, and Hummers.* And as we know, large cars have terrible gas mileage. The Hummer H2, for example, gets 14 miles/gallon (17 liters/100 km), and with gas prices the way they are in the U.S. (and much worse in Europe), it's good to have an economical car that gets at least 25 miles per gallon (~10 liters/100 km).

For our trip to Chicago (mentioned in Chicago Dr.), we drove a '99 Chevy Suburban all the way from there to Texas and back again. 1890 miles round-trip. And with a gas gauge that goes wild (a new one is necessary, but not in the plans), it's hard to know how much fuel is left. Until you know... the car stalls.

And that's exactly what happened to us outside of the small town of Anna, Illinois, near the Missouri border. It wasn't the best situation exactly, with nightfall approaching, we'd be stranded in a town with a car full of people eager to get the sixteen-hour trip back to Texas over with ASAP. 

My dad left to find a gas station and there we were, six of us total, at the mercy of how fast my dad could manage to find fuel. So we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until about 10 minutes into our ordeal, an elderly man stopped. He drove up in a white Chrysler 300, and started to talk to my cousin. After a few minutes, he left. 

My cousin came round to my door and opened it. "So," I asked, "where did he go?"
"Oh, he went to go get some gas for us," replied my cousin. "But you'll never believe what he told us."
"What did he tell you?" I asked.
"Well, he started by saying, 'You guys aren't from around here, are you?'"

I interrupted, "Okay, and?"

"Then he said, 'You all are Mexicans, right?'"
My mouth dropped open. "What the fuck? Did he really say that," I asked horrified.

"Yeah, he did," replied my cousin. "And then he said, 'You know, some Mexicans live here. In fact, I have some that work for me."
"WHAT THE FUCK!" I yelled. As if being Hispanic had anything to do with our needing help.

"I KNOW! But he went to go get gas for us."

"Racist motherfucker," I told him.

A pixelized photograph of the asshole.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is the asshole of the year. 

After the racist motherfucker left, we stayed put, waiting for his return. Five, ten minutes passed, and this white pick-up truck drove up. In it were a man and my father, carrying a container of gasoline. The man hastily began to pour the gasoline into our tank. 

After he had poured a majority of the container's contents in, he said, "That should get you to the nearest station. It's about five miles down the highway."

At that point, my mom, who speaks broken English, began to gather money.

"Here, sir," she said. "This is for you." 

"Oh no," the man replied, "I can't take this from you. What's help if you take someone's hard-earned money. Just consider it a favor."

My mom tried once more to give him the money, but he refused.

"Thank you, sir!" my mom said to him in broken English.

"Thank you very much!" we all said.

He got into his white truck and drove away.

As we piled into the Suburban, I mentioned to my cousin, "There goes the nicest guy of the year. He's my Nice Guy of the Year."

A photograph of the nicest guy of the year. Hope he wins the lottery.

And that, ladies gentleman, is the Nice Guy of the year.

We soon drove off and were on our way to find the nearest gas station. We managed to make it and filled up there. And for the rest of the trip, made sure to fill up in increments. Which we did ONCE, in Arkansas.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the asshole, we saw him on the way to the gas station. If it hadn't been for the fact that asked if we were Mexicans, I probably would have felt bad.