She was pushing a modern vintage Vespa along the side of a bustling highway in southern Washington when I pulled over to see if she needed a ride.
"It ran out of gas," she said. No shit-I thought to myself. She was in her forties but a lifetime spend outside had carmelized and freckled her skin and faded her blond hair. Her low cut shirt exposed cleavage covered with stretch marks, implying she had kids, although she wore no wedding ring. "Do you want a ride to the gas station?" I ask bluntly. "No, I'll just keep pushing," she replies in a manner that say she's too cheap to buy a gas can and would rather walk along a freeway for two miles to save four dollars. "Besides you'd have to go out of your way and then backtrack to the bike." "I wouldn't have stopped if I wasn't going to help," I retort.
I had no rope to tow her and no tube to syphon fuel out of my tank. "Please be safe," I say before leaving and reentering 70+ mile per hour traffic. Right as I enter the highway, a State Police Officer turns on his lights and begins questioning the woman. I turned around to see her get into the police car when the officer made her spend four dollars on a gas can.