Compassion Quota

“They say compassion is a virtue, but I don‘t have the time.” 

–David Byrne, Talking Heads

I’m a Volvo mom, but it didn’t start out that way. In the mid 80’s, I arrived in Los Angeles driving a tiny tan Subaru wagon with a stick shift, it’s fender pockmarked from my dad fixing a dent with a hammer. I moved in with my aunt and uncle in Encino, unemployed until the house painter hooked me up with a guy who produced movie trailers. I got hired as an assistant editor, packed the Subaru and fled the Valley for Beverly Hills, like the Hillbillies. “Y’all come back now, ya hear?”

One day, I pulled up in front of my apartment, a pretty Spanish townhouse built in the 1920’s. Jacaranda trees lined the street, the fragrant lavender blooms making a sticky mess, furthering the debate as to whether or not their beauty is worth it. Parked in front of my place was a 1966 Volvo P1800 sports car, mint green, mint condition, collecting buds on its windshield. Taped to the window was a ‘For Sale’ sign scribbled with a phone number. Having been swiftly promoted to editor, I’d gotten a raise, worked a bunch of overtime hours and was feeling flush. I tracked down that gem of an auto, dropped the Subaru like a hot potato and dropped a couple thousand bucks on the Volvo. The little looker was mine.

Though designed by a Swede, the P1800 looked like a sexy Italian torpedo. The grill and bumpers were chrome and so was the dashboard, with the delightful addition of turquoise and red gauges. I was in love, but that car came with baggage. Its electrical system was finicky, prone to quitting at the most inopportune times, like in the middle of a busy intersection during morning rush hour traffic. The gas gauge needle swung back and forth like a pendulum. My fuel situation was a constant guessing game. 

On the Saturday before Christmas, I was cruising down Pico Boulevard, getting a “thumbs up” from passing auto enthusiasts. The P1800 pooped out. The gas tank was empty. It came to a halt right smack in front of the entrance to the West Side Pavilion, a busy shopping mall, especially with the holidays fast approaching. In the rearview mirror, I could see cars lining up behind me, anxious shoppers angry at my misfortune. Honking and yelling ensued. Fists were shaking in my direction. 

Prone to feeling bad about inconveniencing others and unable to move the tank of a car alone, I reached over and cranked down the passenger side window, calling out to a man passing by. “Excuse me sir, but could you please help me push my car out of the way?” I pleaded over the din. He paused to take in the queue of cars, consider my situation and my request before replying, “Sorry. I helped somebody yesterday.” He continued walking. 

Having always wanted a convertible, I swapped out the Volvo for a first edition Mazda Miata. An eccentric co-worker jumped at the chance to take the P1800 off of my hands, paying me more than I had plunked down for it a few years prior. 

I don’t have the means, the space, nor the interest in procuring a fleet of vehicles, but every now and then, I regret getting rid of that P1800. It was so pretty and fun, but I was done with its unpredictability. I wanted something reliable so I never had to ask for help again. I might still have it, except for the no seatbelts nor headrests. I wouldn’t put my kid in there, though I often wedged friends into the miniscule back seat that was really just a flat piece of carpet.  

During my illness, I wasn’t convinced I’d outlive a three-year lease. Two years into my recovery, I felt confident enough about my survival to take the plunge and get a new car. I dumped a ten-year-old wagon - “Crappy” my son Theo called it - and got a little SUV, suitable for groceries, dogs and 12-year-old hoodlums. Theo likes to point out how frequently I stop for gas. “It’s PTSD,” he parrots. I needed something trustworthy, a relationship that would last for at least 36 months or 30,000 miles.

Is there a statute of limitations on compassion, like terms of an auto lease? How often should we help people? Clearly not once a day, according to the man who passed me by that day in front of the mall.  Maybe he hadn’t assisted anyone all week, all month, all year, or ever. I’d try to make sense of it, to come up with an insightful answer but “I helped somebody yesterday.”