You may remember the film director Alan Pakula, whose legacy included such memorable works as Sophie’s Choice, All the President’s Men, Klute, and To Kill a Mockingbird. Pakula’s special talent, rare in Hollywood, was his ability to get inside his characters’ heads so audiences could figure out what made them tick. He was also special to me because he was my cousin (his mother was my grandfather’s youngest sister).
In the fall of 1998 Alan was working on an unusually ambitious project: He proposed to write and direct a screen adaptation of No Ordinary Time, Doris Kearns Goodwin’s nonfiction book about the relationship between Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt during the World War II years.
He had spent months working on the screenplay at his Manhattan office when, on the morning of November 19, he climbed into his Volvo station wagon to drive to his home in East Hampton, at the far end of Long Island. Thirty-five miles into his trip, he was following another car at what seemed a safe distance when the motorist in front of him suddenly swerved to avoid a seven-foot-long metal pipe lying on the expressway. In the process of swerving, the car drove over the pipe, sending it hurtling through Pakula’s windshield and into his head. Within an hour Alan was pronounced dead, at the age of 70. No Ordinary Time and goodness knows how many other worthwhile ventures were never finished or even conceived.
An object in the road
I mention this incident because something similar happened to Barbara and me this month. We were driving from Philadelphia to Brooklyn for a Mother’s Day lunch with our daughters and their families. As we came off the Outerbridge Crossing from New Jersey into Staten Island, traffic was heavy and chaotic as impatiently speeding cars darted toward the multiple routes before them. Suddenly, lying on the road directly in front of us, was some sort of metal object— maybe a sign of some sort, perhaps three feet wide. Presumably it had fallen off a truck, much like the metal pipe that killed Alan Pakula.
We had no time to think and no real choices in any case. If we swerved left or right to avoid this object, we would surely crash into another car. If we slammed on the brakes, we’d be hit from behind. Our only option was to drive over the sign and hope it would cause minimal damage. Which we did.
At first it seemed we had dodged a bullet: Our Honda continued to function. But soon the engine began to make strange knocking noises. We were able to limp across Staten Island, across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and finally into a Brooklyn neighborhood. Our goal was to reach our daughter’s building, where we hoped to park the car, inspect the damage, and summon help. But about a mile from our destination, the car simply stopped. (Later we learned that the oil pan underneath the car had been punctured, causing the oil to leak out until there was none left, at which point the engine died.)
‘Inconsiderate bastards’
Now we found ourselves on a Brooklyn street with only one open lane, so that our immobilized car blocked a long line of cars, buses, and trucks. Worse, we couldn’t push our car out of the way, because it was locked in the “park” gear and couldn’t be shifted to neutral, since the engine couldn’t start.
Thanks to the miracle of cell phones, we were able to summon the police and two towing companies. We were also able to call our sons-in-law, who drove over to provide emotional and logistical support. But the most gratifying upshot was the unexpectedly positive response of all those inconvenienced drivers whose cars we were blocking.
These total strangers— some of them bus and truck drivers, some mechanics, some Black and white and Latino— now poured out of their vehicles, first to try to push our car, then to get into our car itself to figure out some way to unlock the “neutral” gear. All of them approached our quandary in a spirit of empathy and eagerness to help. (One exception: A driver who shouted, “Move the car, you inconsiderate bastards!”)
When one of these helpers asked for a flathead screw driver, another Good Samaritan, a Brooklynite named Jose Torres, volunteered to walk three blocks to retrieve one from a relative’s house, and actually returned with the needed screw driver.
Eventually the police arrived, but they were nowhere near as helpful; they simply sat in their car and waited until the tow truck arrived to finally drag our car out to a body shop.
Meanwhile, in Philadelphia….
In the days since Mother’s Day we’ve spent a lot time dealing with automotive shops, insurance adjusters, and car rental agencies, and retrieving our belongings from our disabled car. At this writing, our 2020 Honda Accord is still parked on a lot in Brooklyn, and we don’t yet know if it can be repaired or will be deemed a total loss. Since all the damage occurred underneath, the car still looks as good as new. And since we bought it just before the Covid pandemic struck, and since we live in the heart of a walkable city, it might as well be new for all the use we’ve made of it. (In three and a half years, it has driven some 6,000 miles.)
When we think of our poor innocent Honda, we’re tempted to feel like parents who’ve lost a child who never had a chance to grow up. And when we think of those aggravating Mother’s Day events, we’re tempted to replay the moment of the crash and wonder how we could have avoided it. That’s when I think of Alan Pakula. We are indeed lucky to be here, alive and without having suffered so much as a scratch. All we lost, at most, was a car. And we’re lucky that car got us through two traffic-crazed expressways and a bridge before expiring on the relatively civilized streets of Brooklyn. So we’ve resolved to cherish and make the most of each day remaining to us. Because you just never know, do you?
Two days after the accident, as I walked to the polling place to vote in Philadelphia’s mayoral primary election, I encountered a car stalled at the intersection of 17th and Pine Streets, just a block from our home. The driver was attempting to push the car, alone, with the driver’s door open and one hand on the steering wheel. Drivers on both Pine and 17th Streets honked their horns impatiently, but no one got out of their cars to help him. I offered to push the car from behind, and once I started doing so, a teenage girl joined me, saying, “I’m not very strong, but let me try.” Within a minute or so the two of us— a teenage girl and an 80-year-old man— had helped push the disabled car out of the intersection.
Are random acts of kindness habit-forming? Are Brooklynites friendlier than Philadelphians? Are these generalizations ridiculous? Such are the reflections of someone who could have been killed on Mother’s Day but instead was merely inconvenienced.
From Arthur Yellin:
You DROVE into New York? Are you insane? Amtrak and subway!
Over the years my wife and I have been the fortunate beneficiaries of remarkable acts of kindness by strangers. Sometimes they have happened in what we initially assumed were the most unlikely locations...a rough neighborhood, downtown Paris late at night, a busy interstate during rush hour, etc. What we've come to appreciate is that no community has a corner on kindness (though some seem to work hard to claim ownership of the opposite). So glad that you and Barbara only took a financial hit and nothing worse.