A near-miss on State Street brings angels to the rescue of one fallen traveler. 

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By the time I hit the pavement, I was already assessing the damage to my almost 75-year-old body. The pain in my hands was anticipated. But the screaming from my groin, for some reason, immediately brought to my mind the lyrics from "Amarillo By Morning"—They took my saddle in Houston, broke my leg in Santa Fe.

I saw a lady in white, who knelt next to me and calmly began to speak.

I had stopped at a red light, in the middle southbound lane on State Street at North Temple, when a driver pulled up alongside me. His car was covered in advertisements detailing a company's ability to clean any mess.

I had been looking for just such a cleaning crew to help with the basement in Casa Yengich, a large, dusty house built in 1904 on Capitol Hill, which mysteriously creates plenty of its own dust and also seems to attract all of that mess created by the Utah Legislature when they are in session. I requested a business card.

In a vain attempt to reach for the card though my window, I decided to open the door and make it easier. Bad Move! When I leaned out, I took my foot off the brake, and the metaphorical rodeo gate opened.

I was bucked straight out the door onto my hands, head and shoulders, without coming even close to "lookin' for eight when they pull that gate and I hope that Judge ain't blind," as George Strait famously sang.

I immediately hurt like the proverbial sumbitch. The Angel Lady asked me, "sir, are you OK? Can you move?" A gentleman asked, "do you think you can get up?" I was lying in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, so it seemed a fair question.

Another man was running after my GMC beast and behind him was a small pickup truck, which seemed to be gaining on both. Between the two of them they chased the runaway—and the small truck even bumped it—before the "rodeo pickup man" jumped inside and wrangled it to a parking spot corral on the side of the road.

I was stunned and gratified at the roadside miracle and asked for help to get me back on my feet. My angels helped me upright and walked me to the sidewalk to assess this old fool for injuries more serious than latent stupidity. The Angel Lady, who I took for a medical professional, wanted me to sit on the curb.

By that time, a small crowd of Good Samaritans had gathered around. My car was hitched up—legally—near the LDS Church Office Building and the cleaning crew had even returned with a business card.

My body was carefully triaged to make sure I could get into the saddle and stay there. Many heartfelt thanks were exchanged.

As I sat quietly, I thought of the Good Samaritan and wondered how often that old parable of Jesus is lived out every day in a world consumed by political vitriol and middle-finger pointing. So many people had stopped to make sure that this old, unknown knucklehead was safe to move on down life's highway. They were concerned enough to pour the wine and oil of kindness on my cuts and bruises and bandage them with their brotherly and sisterly love.

At no time did anyone ask me what I believed in, how I identified, or what political party I belong to. They didn't ask whether I was red or blue or had a green card. No one was stopped from helping because of the color of my skin (a kind of dusty grayish-mauve).

Neither did anyone ask if I thought America needed to be great again. No one cared about the size of my wallet or who I donated the contents to. No one ridiculed the size or shape of my IQ, although they easily could have.

These good people, from various backgrounds, just pumped the brakes of their hurried lives and helped an old fool laying in the middle of the road.

No one judged me—although one young man did point out that "it's lucky your front wheels were straight or the truck would've run right over you, sir."

All I could do was offer a shotgun prayer of thanks to them and to the God of Old Clumsy Codgers. I fired up the Beast and moved into traffic. I started singing "Amarillo by morning, up from San Antone ... they took my saddle in Houston, broke my leg in Santa Fe ..."

The day of my inner-city rodeo blessing was March 4, 2025, Fat Tuesday. The next day was Ash Wednesday and I was at the Cathedral of the Madeleine for the beginning of Lent, where I serve as an usher. My suit and tie covered up the evidence of my Fat Tuesday fall.

The single clue was my limping like Chester Goode from Gunsmoke as people moved from the pews to receive the Ash Cross reminder of all of our ultimate destiny.

When I turned toward the next-to-last pew, I felt like God was winking at me—because there was the Angel Lady from the day prior. We both smiled and I said "thanks" again.

She nodded and took her place in line. As I followed, it struck me that, after the Ash Wednesday reminder, we will all be judged on how we help others in need and hope to hear not only, "Remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return," but, eventually as well, "Enter good and faithful servant, welcome."

A kind group of people will certainly hear the latter phrase, but this beat up Faux Cowboy still has some work to do.

Private Eye is off this week. Send feedback to comments@cityweekly.net