Mitzvah

In Judaism, a “mitzvah” generally refers to a good deed. 

As a New York lawyer for over four decades, specializing in entertainment litigation, I picked up a little bit of Hebrew from the predominantly Jewish members of the bar.

“Mitzvah” resonated with me because lawyers of any religious persuasion are not generally appreciated for their good deeds. Still, it happens rare enough to make each mitzvah meaningful.

And the spoken word “mitzvah” has a pleasant ring to it, especially from the mouth of a Jewish friend.

I really do try to live by the Golden Rule, do unto others as you wish others to do unto you (or yours). As a result, I appreciate all of the blessings I have received in life, and do try to pay them forward at every opportunity.

Now back in the 70s, when I was young and more daring, I wasn’t afraid to hitch hike places or pick up hitch hikers.

Once I married and had kids, I rarely traveled in a car without them, so I wouldn’t make any decision, like giving a lift to a stranger, that would place them at an unnecessary risk. It sucks that you have to become so jaded that you suspect every person of being a potential serial killer, but for New Yorkers, a little paranoia keeps one’s face off the side of a milk carton.

Ever since I moved to Northern Colorado, where I’ve reached the age where familial dependency on my continued existence has lessened, my risk adversity has also declined. I spend a lot of time driving alone in my car, traveling an easy ten to twenty miles just to complete regular chores, like shopping for the critters of Casa Claire. A lot of that driving is on a long highway stretch called 287 that connects the towns that run North to South along Northern Colorado. Longmont, Berthoud, Loveland and Ft. Collins connect in a straight line heading towards Wyoming. A little further East, the Interstate 25 does the same thing but is much faster and busier.

Over the past 8 years I have stopped to give people rides along 287 especially during extreme weather. Cars break down, last buses are missed. Feet, do your thing. NoCo temperatures can extend below zero and above 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The more colorful Coloradans will tell you it can happen in the same day. I can attest that I have experienced the weather from all four seasons in a single week.

I try to make my mobile mitzvahs match the directions I am travelling in. If I spot someone walking along a long stretch in the direction I am heading, and my weirdo survival radar developed over six decades in Gotham doesn’t ping, I’ll pull over and ask how far they are going. Hopefully, no further than I am traveling. But, if upon listening to a person’s story – lawyers are pretty good at teasing out the truth from someone pretty quickly – and there is a good reason to take them as close as you can to their final destination – I will go the extra distance.

And as a storyteller, there is no better way to expand your repertoire than to listen to the story of a stranger.

Yesterday, I was supposed to have a facial spa with the greatest barber in the Universe, Anna. However, due to a family emergency, she had to cancel. That freed up my morning to run to Murdock’s in Longmont to pick up 8 bags of wood shavings for the barn, and of course, when Lisa heard that, while on the phone with my DIL, Georgie, she volunteered me to swing over to Georgie’s house and pick up a set of goggles for one of my grands and bring them back to the Berthoud Rec Center in time for that particular grand’s swimming lesson – the other two were having their lessons before the forgetful one. It was a tight schedule – no slacking or diversions. After setting records purchasing and loading the shavings, and then driving East to Georgie’s home and grabbing the goggles, I was racing up 287 trying to make the 10:30 deadline at 70 mph with no time to spare.

It had already risen to almost 100 degrees and the air quality had drawn warnings from the NoCo health agencies.

Just north of Walmart’s above Longmont, I spotted this young guy resting behind a large backpack on the side of the highway. He looked tired and frustrated, as if his backpack had insulted him for taking it on a boondoggle in the worst of weather. I almost pulled over and offered him a ride, but I had places to go and deadlines to meet with no fat in the timing schedule. My gran needed her goggles by 10:30 am.

I said a little prayer as I passed this guy and hoped someone else would step up and offer him a ride.

I made it with no time to spare, and then had to race home and pick up a package that Lisa wanted to mail to her sister-in-law. The Berthoud Post Office is only open for a New York minute on Saturday morning, so I had to drive back home, grab the box and drive back to Berthoud. Half hour more done and dusted. As I was heading back home to unload the wood shavings still in the back of my car, I had to cross 287 once again. I thought about that poor pedestrian bastard and wondered if anyone had offered him a lift. It was 102 degrees on my car console.

I made a spontaneous decision to head South on 287 with the idea that I would drive ten miles towards Longmont, and if I spotted him walking North, I would turn around and see where he was going. I figured even if I took him as far as Berthoud, it would be better than nothing. Beggars can’t be choosers.

But I also knew that Lisa had committed to taking the girls to the movies that afternoon, so I was facing yet another early afternoon deadline as chauffer and gran wrangler.

About three quarters along the stretch South towards Longmont, I saw the determined young man placing one foot in front of the other trying to ignore the Africa heat and not even looking at the many many cars that flew by him without a thought. I guess he figured walking was better than waiting for a ride that would never come.

Damnit. I had committed myself to doing the right thing, and cursed myself for the Universe complying with my promise.

I made the u Turn – which in itself risks life and limb – swung onto the shoulder right in front of this guy – hopped out and shouted – “Where are you heading?!”

Of course this young man said “Cheyenne, Wyoming.”

Now anyone who remembers AAA, remembers a scene where Jimmy picks up the young pregnant couple and pooch heading towards Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Life imitates art.

I told him to squeeze his backpack – which had a large bright patch on the back that proudly stated “Jesus is Lord” – into the back of the Toyota – yes that one – among the wood shavings, and told him I could take him most of the way – about 30 plus miles – into Ft. Collins – where he could catch a bus for the remaining distance.

And then I began the artful interrogation to ensure that I just didn’t pick up Ted Bundy.

I actually made a joke right away saying that my wife always warned me about hitch hikers but also told him that at the first sense of danger I would drive my car into a tree and that the passenger side air bags were rendered inoperable for just that reason. And given that I was old and crazy, I’d have no problem doing it.

He laughed, nervously, and then introduced himself.

Zachary Scott Smith is a traveling preacher. Old school. For the past ten years he has been following God’s call to all of the capital cities of all of the states in the Continental US, stopping at street corners and Pentecostal churches to preach the word of God.

He relies on the kindness of strangers and explained that the only reason he had not hopped a bus from Longmont to Cheyenne was that he was almost out of money.

But this kid was charismatic and believed in his calling. It impressed me. He shared stories of his trips through the bible belt and the different people he met. But he was a born again, so there were clear doctrinal lines drawn in the sand that could not be crossed if you wanted to enter heaven.

As a lapsed catholic who has reverted to his Celtic druidic dogma, and a lifelong lawyer who enjoys picking apart arguments and debating for sport, I asked if he wouldn’t mind engaging in a debate to pass the time on the drive. He was up for it. Game on.

So for the rest of the stretch I questioned the legitimacy of the sources of his Bible – the foundation of his preaching – and focused primarily on some of his absolute no-nos like abstinence from fornication and alcohol, often mixing the two sins together to create more interesting scenarios – and challenged him as to why a perfect creator would create such imperfect beings and judge them for the failures their built in imperfections had caused.

I also voiced my belief that Jesus – as all of us – was a man in who God had shared his essence – and had raised his own energy levels to a higher plane that allowed him to do the miracles he performed, including create “alcohol” at the wedding of Cana. John 2:1-12.

I also challenged the hypocrisy of all of those good Christians that flew by him on his most recent stretch of his journey when only this fallen Druid would make the effort to not only rescue him from certain heat stroke, but would be willing to drive him out of his way – for purposes of argument, I asked him to accept the fact that this wasn’t an aberration, I am prone to these kinds of acts – but because I refuse to follow the rules of his sect, I was doomed to hell.

We made a quick stop in Loveland where I withdrew 200 bucks and gave it to him because I knew he was low on funds, probably hungry, and would never reach his next stop without a contribution to his travelling fund.

And once back in the car, we continued our discourse, with him pulling out the idea that my game isn’t over and Jesus would accept me even at the last second.

We Catholics have a similar get out of jail card called last rights. Fr. Damian from The Exorcist pulled it off with a wiggle of bloody two fingers before he passed at the bottom of the long flight of cement stairs at the end of the movie. The very real priest in the film who gave Damian “Extreme Unction” also taught my eldest – now also a writer – at Fordham Prep in the Bronx.

I told Zach to accept the fact that I would rather burn than be hypocritical and accept that escape route out of death bed fear. I meant it.

Now mind you, our conversation was respectful throughout and to the extent I could do so, included a little humor.

I also took a selfie.

When we finally reached Ft. Collins, I mentioned that our discourse would certainly make him a much better preacher because he had survived the ordeal and kept his faith. And then I closed with – and who knows, I could be Satan just trying to challenge his belief.

I smiled as wickedly as I could and I could see that this young man – for a split second – considered the possibility.

That was followed by my laugh – I couldn’t have faked it.

Anyway, I told him not to worry, that he had made it across the desert, body and soul in one piece, and dropped him off in front of a Super Walmart’s in Northern Ft. Collins

where he could put money on his Walmart’s Debit Card, grab a well deserved meal and figure out the bus schedule for his final leg to Cheyenne, Wyoming.

A perfect mitzvah in NoCo.

Now, just to make sure I hadn’t accidently pissed off the Universe, in case I met with Biblical retribution on my return trip home – it was now past twelve and no one knew where I had disappeared to after my trip to the Berthoud Post Office – I called and left a voice mail on my old friend and religious swat team leader – Pete Sheridan’s (yes from WTLLM) cell phone – explaining what had occurred and to rally the troops should I not make it to my home. Pete is determined to bring me back into the fold of Mother Church and I intend to make that as challenging as possible until my last breath. I know he’s gotten a laugh out of the adventure.

Miracles of miracles, I did get home and managed to sweep up the grans and take them to a beautifully air conditioned Multiplex, where we all enjoyed a new Disney movie about extraterrestrials, called Elio.

So, the lesson here is to pay it forward in life whenever you get the chance. It may not get you into heaven, but it will make your life here on this energy plane that much more interesting. And it pumps up those endorphins.

Another miracle that arose from this adventure was that Lisa didn’t even mind me dropping 200 bucks on a complete stranger.

That woman is truly a Saint. Pete, if you can’t do anything for this lost cause, make sure Lisa gets first class, VIP admission past the other St. Peter and the Pearly Gates. She still considers herself a good Catholic.

Travelling Preacher Zach, I hope you successfully continue your holy mission to help the lost find there way to Jesus. You are a rare but really good man. I wish your calling nothing but success.

And to however many of my five readers that remain, let’s make today a great one.