Car 13
Jonathan Banks still protects and serves.
I reported to work at the Clarkston Parts House at 8:00 in the morning on a cold and rainy December day. By 8:30, the phone had rung several times and I, along with my colleague, knew we were going to be busy. He and I were the store’s only delivery persons.
Our company delivered tools and various other items to local businesses. In fact, we were really a countywide service. We’d take parts anywhere. We’d deliver the goods, no matter what the weather was like. Unfortunately, it seemed like we were going to have awful weather today.
I had three deliveries to make. Just my luck, they were at opposite ends of the county. I then had to run some parts over the county line into Pines County. This was unusual because we rarely left Mackenson County and Tenby, the largest city in Pines County, would typically have anything you needed. It was not, however, too far out of the way, and I didn’t mind making the delivery.
I left the store in one of the delivery trucks (a small pickup truck) and made my way over to Highway 73. I headed south, and before long I could see ice bouncing off of my windshield. I tuned the radio to Clarkston Hits and listened to the weather forecast. It called for freezing rain and sleet. Later on in the morning it was supposed to snow. Though I had plenty of heat in the cab of the truck, I shuddered involuntarily.
I entered the city limits of Oakwish and drove to John’s Garage. Nice people work there, and they are regular customers. I dropped their package off and received their payment, and then John invited me into the office for a cup of hot coffee. I sipped my drink, talked to John for about 15 minutes, and then made my way to the truck. In a few minutes I was heading back to and through Clarkston on the way to Silver City.
In Silver City there was, basically, a repeat performance of what occurred in Oakwish. I delivered the part—a starter for a tractor—and chatted in the office for a little while. Once again I made my way to the truck, and once again I headed to Clarkston. By this time the freezing rain and the sleet had really started to fall. The roads were becoming slick, and I could see the wind blowing the ice across Highway 73.
In Clarkston I took a left onto Highway 80 and headed east toward Pines County. I was delivering a package of sprockets to a place called the Magnate Foundry. Evidently one of their much needed machines had failed, and they desperately needed their order. I’d heard of the Magnate Foundry before, and I knew they made propellers and various accoutrements of the ship-building industry, but I had never been to the location. I slowed down and began to watch for the place.
It was becoming more difficult to see because of the ice but soon I saw a tall lighted sign with the company’s name and logo (a stylized anchor) on it. I parked and entered into their receiving department, and the package I delivered was almost immediately seized and no doubt delivered to the company’s maintenance section. The employees of Magnate Foundry were likable enough people, but they were also busy people—this time there was no offer of coffee in a warm office. I was quickly given a check and allowed to go on my way.
When I got back to my vehicle it was snowing. We’re talking about near whiteout conditions, and the radio was announcing the possibility of this sort of weather for the next six to eight hours. I obviously couldn’t sit on the foundry’s parking lot until it stopped snowing, so I cranked up, put the truck in gear, and rolled back out to Highway 80.
In Texas, and especially in Northeast Texas, it’s part of the culture that the area basically shuts down when there is severe winter weather. Whether it’s icy rain, sleet, or a heavy snowfall, the area comes to a standstill. This creates all sorts of additional trouble, as businesses are forced to close their doors. With their closures, such things as fuel and groceries don’t get resupplied.
People in Mackenson County and the surrounding areas don’t know what snow chains are: In my 50 years on earth I have seen one vehicle in the shop getting snow chains installed. I’ve seen stores closed dozens of times. I have seen vehicles form a line of about one-quarter of a mile attempting to purchase fuel. I’ve even seen times when stores sold out of flashlight batteries and toilet tissue. I haven’t mentioned electricity: I’ve seen the power fail because of winter weather and I’ve seen it remain "off" for as long as two weeks before the power company could get it turned on again.
Fortunately, or as fortunately as it could be, two roads are largely exempt from shutdowns: Highway 73 and Highway 80. They are a bit easier to travel because the department of highways spreads salt and gravel up and down the roads, and on the bridges. I had passed by dump trucks as I was driving out to the foundry, and now I could see evidence that they had already dumped material on the highway. This would make it a little easier, I hoped, to get back to Clarkston.
About 15 miles out of the town of Clarkston, there is a hill that is called Bella Hill. It is one of about four outstanding features of the historic Bella Community, which contains the remains of a Native American village, Bella Cemetery, and Bella Hill Church. The name itself comes from an early resident who passed away far too soon, a six year old girl named (naturally) Bella.
Bella Hill is steep, and I tend to think of it as a runner’s nightmare. It’s also something of a driver’s nightmare. When you’re heading east on Highway 80, you go down Bella Hill. When you’re going west, you travel up the hill. Even on a good day you can’t tell much about the traffic on Bella Hill.
I was traveling up this hill when a box truck appeared on the opposite side of the road. It was going too fast, and though the road had been salted and graveled, it managed to find the one slick spot on the highway. It came into my lane and headed straight for me. I jerked my steering wheel. The other driver did the same. He over-corrected, but managed to get himself oriented again. He didn’t even acknowledge me, he just sped on his way.
I ended up on the wrong side of the road with half of my truck sticking out into the wrong lane. A few vehicles passed by and slowed down, but they kept going. I probably could have moved my truck, but I was afraid to do so because of the traffic. I couldn’t tell what was about to come down that hill. Finally, something caught my eye. I glanced in the mirror and saw a vehicle, a car, from the Pines County Sheriff’s Office. He was pulling up behind me with his lights flashing.
The police officer got out of his car and came to my window. He was a muscular young man, and he wasn’t wearing any cold weather gear. He wore a campaign hat with a hat protector along with his badge and a name tag that read, “Jonathan Banks.”
“Are you okay, sir?”
I told him I was fine and I briefly explained how I came to be in the wrong lane and why I was afraid to move.
“We’ll get you on your way,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m going to the top of the hill to stop traffic. Give me five minutes and then you can back out and go on your way. Be very careful and watch for traffic when you’re backing up.”
“Will do, sir,” I said. “And thank you.”
“Have a nice day,” he said. He went to his car, made a U-turn, and drove up the hill. I waited for the five minutes, carefully backed out into the road when I saw no westbound traffic, and then slowly made my way back toward Clarkston. When I passed the officer he waved, and I waved back. I looked at his car, because I planned on thanking the sheriff’s department later. On the back it read “Car 13.”
I made it to the store and told everyone my tale. They all agreed that I had been lucky. My boss closed the store early, at noon, and we all went home. We were to call the next day to find out if we should report to work.
The next day we were off (no surprise there) and I decided to call the Pines County Sheriff’s Office to express my thanks for the assistance of Deputy Jonathan Banks, who potentially saved my life. The phone rang and a dispatcher took the call. I told her why I was calling and about my experience at Bella Hill. She went silent.
“What?” She finally stammered. “Sir, if this is a joke it isn’t funny.”
No, it wasn’t a joke, I explained. Deputy Jonathan Banks, driving Car 13, stopped to help me and possibly saved my life.
“Sir, that’s not possible,” she said. “Deputy Jonathan Banks was killed three years ago at Bella Hill while attempting to help a pedestrian. He was driving Car 13.”
The End.
© 2023-2025 Ren Adama
