Angel in Blue Jeans

“Oh no! I can’t believe I did that!” I shriek in horror.
    “What’s wrong Mom?” asks my nine-year-old daughter in alarm.
    “I locked the keys in the car!”
    “What are we going to do?” she cries, sounding almost as terrified as I feel.  Her friend Amy stands nearby, huge round eyes peering above the hand over her mouth.
    “I don’t know.”  Indeed I do not.  We are in Spokane, 150 miles from home, on Sunday morning.  We are due at the Kings’ Lake Girl Scout camp by noon, and barely had time to stop for milkshakes.  I had set the keys on the seat beside me while I checked the map, and forgot to pick them up again before carefully locking the car from the inside and slamming the door.  The problem is compounded by the fact that I’m driving the Girl Scout Council car, the Council director isn’t in town even if I knew her number, and I don’t know a soul in Spokane.  If I call a locksmith, we’re likely to be delayed at least an hour.
    “Come on.”  My heart is pounding as I beckon the girls to follow me into Burger King.  I still have no idea what I’m going to do, and I’m feeling desperate.  I order milkshakes for the girls.  As I pay, I suddenly blurt out, “Do you by any chance know how to break into a locked car?”
    The teenager behind the counter gives me a blank stare, then slowly nods and smiles.  “We have some wire coat hangers in the other room,” she offers helpfully.
    “Thanks, but I don’t know if they’d help,” I reply, feeling discouraged.  I turn and scan the dining area, seeing only a handful of people scattered among the tables.  I take a deep breath and address the room.
    “Does anyone here know how to break into locked cars?”  The urgency in my voice is obvious even to me, a woman who thinks of herself as Ms. Coolhead.
    To my amazement, a man looks up.  He slowly folds his paper, slides from his seat and steps forward.  “I might be able to help you. What seems to be the problem?”
    Limp with relief, I briefly explain.
    “Let me have one of those hangers please,” he says to the teenager.  Obviously he’d been listening when I came in.  “Show me the car,” he commands me, taking the hanger in hand.
    I study him carefully as we walk out the door.  He’s of average height and medium build, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a weathered face.  A faded t-shirt stretches over a strong chest, and his jeans are well-worn.  He has the bearing of a construction worker, used to handling heavy loads.  He straightens the hanger and slaps it smartly across the palm of his hand as we walk.  His confident air inspires a flicker of optimism.
    “I'm sure glad you were in there,” I say conversationally.  “How did you learn to do this?”
    “I used to make my living this way,” he replies with a wink.  I glance at him again, wondering if he’s joking, but now we've reached the car.  I point at it.
    When he sees the 1979 Pontiac, he hesitates.  “Oh ... this is one of those newer cars.  I don't know ... this may take some time.”  My heart skips a beat, but he already has the coat hanger plunged deep into the car door.  He grins at me as he gently jiggles it.  His warm smile beams rays of pure joy into my soul.  He jiggles another few seconds, then reaches for the handle and opens the door, handing the hanger back to me.  “You better keep this.  You might need it later.”
    “But,” I splutter in amazement, “how did you do that?”  He explains the lock mechanism, and how you slide a certain bar a certain way.
    “It was a lot easier in the older cars.  Some of the newest cars, you can't do it at all.  They have electronic devices that you’ll ruin if you mess inside.  You got lucky on this one.”
    “Wow, thank you so much!  You really saved my skin!  How much do I owe you?”
    “Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Glad to help out.”  He's still smiling that heartwarming smile, gentle, kind, not the least bit flirtatious.  I don't want him to go just yet.
    “Can I at least buy you a burger or a cup of coffee or something.”
    “Thank you, but no.  I’ll just be on my way now.” He speaks over his shoulder as he turns and walks away.  After a few steps he just disappears in a sort of shimmery flash that I’m not sure I actually saw.  I blink and stare again, seeing no trace of the man who stood in front of me seconds ago.
    “Did you see that?” I ask the girls, who have been slurping their shakes behind me, intent on learning how to break into cars.
    “See what?”
    “He just disappeared.  Vanished.  Evaporated.  Like POOF!” I say, with an exploding gesture to emphasize the last term.
    “Oh.  I wasn't watching,” they chorus.
    “Maybe he was an angel,” Amy suggests, sounding eerily insightful.
    “Maybe so,” I reply slowly, goose bumps rippling over my whole body.  Could it really be?  I think maybe, just maybe, it could really be.  An angel in blue jeans, who would have thought?  I take a deep breath and tip my head upward.  “Thank you,” I whisper.  “Thank you!”  I feel giddy with elation and stroke the coat hanger reverently.  My eyeballs ache from being held open so wide and I take a deep, long, steadying breath.
    We get back in the car and continue to camp.  The miles melt as I savor the certainty that I’ve just experienced a miracle.  Then I promise myself to be ever so careful about car keys from now on, not wanting to push my luck that an angel in blue jeans will be sitting in Burger King if I haven’t learned my lesson.