For anyone who’s lived in most any large city or has done a lot of travel, you come to develop a certain “sixth sense” about people trying to scam you or otherwise part you from your money. You are not necessarily afraid of these people, but you learn to be wary.
The magic solution to their problem, aside from taking your wallet outright, often seems to be $5, whether that’s for gas for their car broke down a couple blocks over, or for bus tickets so they can go home to their waiting wife and children, or for this really nice bicycle that seems way too small for them, but that nevertheless works really great and that they are willing to sell to you. And yes, their name is Sarah, or their daughter is Sarah, or whatever name is stamped into the nameplate under the bike’s seat.
So when I saw this dude slouching on a bench in front of the post office today, eyeing me as I approached, I thought, OK, here we go. No one seeks to sit on a bench in front of a post office unless they have an ulterior motive. What’s his line going to be?
“You got a cell phone?” he said, as I walked by him to go inside to mail some letters.
I was expecting him to ask me something, as he sipped from a styrofoam cup, but the gambit he seemed to have chosen usually took the form of the question, “You got the time?” And then when you stopped to look at your watch and gave the person the time, that person then launched into one of the above schemes to extract $5 from you. The expense of your watch, which you just showed to the person, would allow them to better assess which ploy was more likely to result in success.
“No, sorry,” I said. “Don’t have one with me.” I actually didn’t, so I only felt half-awkward at the interaction.
I continued into the post office, mailed my letters, and came back out. I didn’t have any choice except to walk by the man again.
He said something, and, after everything that happened later, as I’m writing this, I still can’t recall what it was he said. But instead of charging past that man on the bench to the safety of my truck, so I could get back on the road, I stopped.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He said something else, but it wasn’t clear.
I stepped closer, trying to hear.
He gestured with his styrofoam cup.
I leaned in closer.
“My blood pressure,” he said.
He wasn’t elderly, but he wasn’t young. His skin color doesn’t matter. In truth, he seemed about my age, though perhaps a little worse for wear. I didn’t see any car keys or mail, so I wasn’t sure how or why he was at the post office. And he kept gesturing with that cup. And eyeing me.
“It’s happened before,” he said.
I felt a bit awkward there, in front of the post office, talking to this man. But I queried him, asking him about his health, though I felt like I was invading his privacy, his domain.
“I can’t even describe it,” he said, looking exasperated. Or angry. Or confused.
That’s what modern society says we are supposed to do, right? Not invade another person’s space? But was I actually invading by asking him questions, since he approached me initially?
I needed to get back on the road–I had five more hours behind the wheel in front of me. And was this interaction being recorded on some government computer somewhere?
The man dropped his head down and rested his forearms against his knees. “My son is 19,” he said, as if that was an answer to some question in some dialog or debate he was running in his head.
I pressed him some more. The story that emerged–a story that was not cohesive, more of an impression I was left with rather than any rational line of reasoning I was used to following in my work as an engineer–is that he seemed to be having an issue with his heart. Irregular heartbeats. Dizziness. Trouble breathing. Someone had given him a cup of iced water and had sent him on his way–probably had shooed him out of the store.
But that wasn’t enough. He needed more. This was not a problem $5 could solve.
“Don’t you want to go inside the post office, where it’s cool?” I said.
He shook his head. “I just want to set right here ‘n catch my breath.”
To me, after talking with him, he seemed in distress, perhaps under the mental fog caused by irregular heartbeats. Plus, it was the middle of a sweltering, humid, crazy climate change sort of day. He wasn’t in any shape to drive or walk or do anything else.
It was just me and him, and I needed to get back on the road. I asked him if I should let the post office lady know and have her call for help.
He seemed OK with that, but I asked the same question again in a different way to make sure. Society had conditioned me not to act on someone else’s behalf without their consent, and I wanted to be sure I had it. Also, if this was indeed an elaborate scam, by just mentioning the involvement of a post office worker I could surely bust the ruse.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He moved his head in what looked like a nod. Kind of.
I went into the post office and had the lady call 911. The ambulance was on the way.
The post office lady came out with me and she also tried to get him to go inside, but he just seemed to get agitated at her questioning, so she went back into the post office. I had hoped to hand him over to her so I could get back on the road, but, well, after the post office lady left him there all alone, I came back from my truck and leaned against the wall beside him. His head was down, looking at the cup in his hands.
“You need to be sure you are here when your son turns 20,” I said, trying to be helpful, cheery. Something.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s it.”
He seemed embarrassed at all the fuss, all the sirens. He didn’t want his son to know about any of this.
I told him I wouldn’t mention it to his son. I told him a lot of things, trying to keep him distracted and comforted while waiting for the ambulance. I told him it was going to be OK.
The ambulance finally arrived, lights blazing. Thankfully they turned off the sirens before turning into the parking lot.
Maybe if I hadn’t stayed there with him, he would have bolted before the ambulance arrived. Maybe if I hadn’t stopped to talk with him at all, he might have keeled over right there on that bench in front of the post office. Maybe a lot of things.
But just before the three paramedics escorted him into the ambulance, he turned to me and reached out a hand. I shook it, and as I looked into his eyes, I realized that he had been initially eyeing me not as a mark, as I had at first suspected, as I had been conditioned to expect, but was trying instead to discern whether or not he could trust me enough to ask for help.
After all, I might shoo him away, or ignore him, or try to take money from him in his weakened state. Or worse.
He had asked me for my help when I had first passed him by, but I hadn’t heard the request. I had heard the words, but had missed the meaning because of my own filters, and the filters imposed on me by society.
Often, how we are to make our way in the world is not clear, but we should at least not give in to fear:
1.) If you need help, do not be afraid to ask for it,
and perhaps more importantly,
2.) If someone asks you for help, do not be afraid to give it.