The Right Thing
(There is always time to do…)
“Power walking,” they call it. Despite a hip replacement, I don’t feel like the constant pounding of running benefits me in the long term. But I can get a pretty good sweat going with the fast striding and arms pumping. It probably looks funny; in fact, I am sure it does. However, it ticks all the boxes. I get the cardiovascular exercise and the “Atta- Boy, Bob” for doing something good for my health. I also get the dopamine exercise buzz that, accentuated with my morning caffeine, makes me feel 60 again. I’m 61.
My sports watch keeps me in the heart-healthy zone and keeps track of the one-mile splits. I like to compete against myself, and tracking the time splits helps me stay interested and exercise even when I don’t feel like it.
It’s October in Las Vegas, meaning it’s about 70 degrees at 7:00 AM. Perfect. My walk starts on Lake North, a semi-busy side street with sidewalks that parallel grass areas between me and the fences of the houses. I see a few familiar faces, other walkers and runners or people just walking their pets. I turn right on Fort Apache, a busier street. I am getting into an area with businesses; grocery stores, gas stations, fast-food restaurants, so I walk cautiously. People like to turn into these places with little regard for who might be stepping off the sidewalk. Most people, however, give me the right of way. About a third of a mile into my walk, having established a pretty good pace, I turn right again onto Sahara and begin a gradual decline for the next half mile. I’m walking with a steady arm-pumping rhythm and pace. I’m feeling “it” (“It” being the magical state of grace, like “flow,” where you just disappear into whatever activity you’re engaged in). Maybe I can establish a new personal best!
Wait! Flow state interrupted. A wheelchair is 50 yards ahead. As I get closer, I see it’s a motorized wheelchair that does not appear to be operational as the man should be sitting in the wheelchair, not behind pushing it. I can see he is struggling to make it up the incline I’m walking down on. Even closer, I see that the man has an issue with his legs. It’s obvious, he is disabled and needs some help.
I need these walks. Not just for the exercise benefit but for my psyche to remain on the straight and narrow. (See “Atta-Boy, Bob,” above). So, here I start to rationalize:
“Hmmm….maybe he is O.K.” (Not) “He’ll be too proud to accept help.” (I don’t think so, he is struggling) “I’ll come back when I finish walking.” (I still have about 35 minutes to go) “As I walk by, I’ll tell him that I’ll call 911.” (He does not need an ambulance, he needs my help).
I decide (begrudgingly) to slow down, and I move to the right to give him more room to get by. I say, “Good morning, everything alright?” I’m hoping he’ll either ignore me or say, “I’m good.” People say that all the time, “Everything good? How are you? What’s up?” “How’s the family?” and 98% percent of the time, the other person says, “Yeah, good.” “Doing great!” “Not much.” “They are fine.” That’s what we expect, just a simple retort to a straightforward question, allowing us to move on almost immediately.
Ahh, but then there are the people, the 2%, that have no problem telling you just how they really feel.
So, the answer I got to my, “everything alright?” was, “Well, be better if I had remembered to charge my wheelchair. This thing is a bitch to push.” I had walked past him about 20 feet by the time he said that.
Now, I’m trapped. Not really, but in my mind continuing without stopping would result in a very stern lecture from God when I am reviewing my mortal life with him. We’re sitting on God’s couch watching all of my sins compressed into about 45 minutes (Hmmm…maybe an hour) on a 100 inch Samsung Ultra 4D screen. Combine that with his Sony Dolby Atmos theater sound system, and every detail of this particular selfish act of mine is coming to me at full screen and concert-level decibels. I’m getting a “You selfish, rat bastard, Bob” look from God (He doesn’t have to say it, He’s God, and I am paying attention).
I walk back towards him. “Hey, can I call anyone for you?” (Why doesn’t he use his cell phone, everybody has one, right?) He either ignored what I was saying or didn’t hear me. He said, “I was heading back from Arizona Charlie’s.” (A small casino that locals frequent, just down the street from where we were). “I went there last night to eat and gamble and ended up leaving my I.D. I was sure I could make it there and back today on the charge I had. I have a cell phone, but it fell in a part of my couch last night where I could not maneuver to reach in and get it. I figured I would worry about it today.”
I knew I didn’t want to push his wheelchair, especially with him in it. I said, “Why don’t I call you a cab? We exchanged names; he is Matt. He said he usually had to call multiple cab companies before one would come out. Many drivers would refuse a ride offer from dispatch involving a disabled person with a wheelchair even if they had a cab equipped with the necessary equipment to transport it. Matt lamented, “The drivers think it’s too much of a hassle and that we, the disabled, are also terrible tippers.” “And don’t even talk about Uber and Lyft,” he said, “most of them can’t transport wheelchairs, and, if they can, it’s still a huge hassle for the driver.
“Really,” I said, “That’s not right. We all need to help one another” (Yeah, I said that). Matt replied, “Well, I didn’t think you were going to stop. I appreciate it very much. I just wasn’t sure what to do. You were the only one that had come down the street in the last half hour. I was going to start trying to get the attention of car drivers.” I looked at Matt and was ashamed of myself for even considering leaving him to fend for himself.
So, sure enough, the first two taxi companies I called did not have any available drivers to transport Matt and his wheelchair. Maybe it was just bad timing. The third company I called told me she would put the call out and if anyone was interested, they would call me on my cell. My hopes were not high, but within 5 minutes, I received a call from a driver saying he would be there in less than 20 minutes.
So, Matt and I got a chance to talk while we waited, hopefully, for the cab to come. He was impressed that a man of my age(?) was still exercising. “Thank you (I think), Matt, just trying to keep all the machinery from rusting out.”
Matt’s condition resulted from an encounter with a large truck going almost 90 mph while he was driving his Mustang (he only had two payments left). He had been married, worked a blue-collar job, and made decent money. He was initially paralyzed from the neck down and in a hospital bed for a year and a half. Slowly, he was able to regain some movement. From what I could tell, he could move his arms around pretty well. But his lower body was not as fortunate, and he had issues walking and moving his legs. I wondered what happened to his wife but didn’t ask. I can only imagine how hard it was for him to push that motorized wheelchair the 80 yards or so from where the Arizona Charlies was to where we were now.
Matt asked me to call the taxicab driver’s cell (caller I.D., great invention). He said he was nervous that the cab might not come. I said, “I’m here for the long haul, Matt. We’ll keep calling till someone does come to pick you up.” However, I did call the taxi driver. I said, “Hey, not trying to rush you, but just making sure you’re still coming by for this gentleman.”
The driver tersely replied, “Hey, I said I would be there in less than 20 minutes. I’m just up the road from you, goodbye.” O.K., I thought, the guy is just an asshole, and the only thing that matters is that he gets here.
I saw a taxi drive past us on the other side of the street. The taxi made a U-turn and pulled up alongside the curb right before us. Here was our guy. Matt was sure glad to see him. He said, “I’m going to tip you well, my friend.” The driver had a specially equipped cab with a platform to have Matt’s wheelchair lifted into the vehicle’s back.
I watched the man get out of his taxi and walk around to the rear of his vehicle. As he came into view, I could see he had a pronounced limp, as if he had severely injured his leg. Then I noticed that his left leg appeared unnaturally twisted.
The taxi driver was disabled as well.
He said, “Hi guys, let’s do this, I should not be parking here, but these wheelchairs are heavy as fuck!”
First, he helped Matt into the taxi. Far from the grumpy and gruff demeanor I heard on the phone, he practically lifted Matt into the passenger seat, being careful not to bump his legs or head. It touched me. The only words that come to mind are “respect and empathy.” He said, “You good, buddy? “Let me know if the seat belt needs adjusting. Would you like a water or a Pepsi?” Matt laughed and said, “Bob, get me the hell out of this taxi. The man drinks Pepsi!” We all had a good laugh, then the driver maneuvered the wheelchair over to the lift and, with the last kilowatt left in the battery, positioned it so with a punch of a button, it lifted into place.
Matt and I said our goodbyes, and as I started walking away, the taxi driver tapped me on the shoulder and apologized for his tone on the phone, “I’m not the kind of person who doesn’t follow through on a call, but you didn’t know that.” Then he looked me in the eye and said, “Hey, thank you for calling us and staying with him.” I said, “Of course, no problem.” I didn’t tell him the myriad of thoughts I initially had. I waved at Matt as they drove away. I called my wife, Judy, who was on the way back from dropping our son at school. I needed to get back home, shower, and go to work. Perfect timing: she was still driving and 5 minutes away. I explained what had happened. Judy knows I need to get my walks in, and she praised me for being unselfish. Oh, boy.
It’s a month down the road. I laugh at how I was admonishing myself for a temporary “lack of compassion.” I’m human and subject to selfishness on occasion. But here’s the deal, I can ponder and imagine all kinds of ideas and situations, good and bad.
The key is what I decide between the thought and response. I stopped to help.
That’s an “Attaboy, Bob.”
