It is a truth universally acknowledged that I suck at parallel parking.

Southern cities tend to be more spread out, often with an abundance of parking lots and wide streets designed with larger vehicles like trucks in mind. As a born and raised Southerner, I was taught parallel parking but never really had much use for it (as there was virtually always a normal parking lot nearby). Even when I lived in Ohio, I was far enough out in the country that parking was virtually never an issue. But then I moved to Jacksonville.

The city of Jacksonville has spread far out into suburbs and exurbs littered with parking lots, but our Downtown, San Marco, and Springfield neighborhoods still have an abundance of parallel parking (especially the last of those three). Having lived in the busy streets of Madison, WI, my wife is no stranger to parallel parking and usually volunteers to drive when we’re heading to events in Springfield, but one evening recently, I found myself without her company. I was on my way to an event at Hyperion Brewing Co, and as I drove down Main Street, I noticed a space which looked only just big enough for my car, but would I be able to maneuver into it?

As I struggled to get my car at just the right angle and put way too much thought into the length of my blind spots in different mirrors, a bystander jumped to my aid. Bald with a short patchy beard, he had a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and his lean frame swam in a massive hoodie. Stepping behind my car, he motioned me into the space. His arms and hands moved fluidly like he had done this thousands of times, and his facial expression was absolute seriousness— a true professional at work. As he modulated seamlessly through the hand motions —back, stop, cut, forward, cut, back, stop—, his face shifted into an accomplished smile, and with their labors concluded, his hands shot up into a double thumbs-up.

I got out of the car and thanked him, and he excitedly said it was no problem. His serious task completed, his youthful chipper suddenly shined through, and I realized he couldn’t have been much older than me. Then came the awkward question, “Any chance you could spare a couple of bucks?” Despite Dave Ramsey’s questionable advice, I haven’t carried cash on my person in almost a decade, so I had to give the unfortunate answer, “Sorry, man, I don’t.” I felt terrible as he had just helped me in a big way, but he responded cheerfully, “No worries,” and bobbed along up the street.

Generosity takes many forms. It’s not always the giving of money. Sometimes it’s just helping a Southerner parallel park even when he has nothing to offer in return.