assist
I cross at the crosswalk. I’m half to the other side when I notice the bus coming at me, slowing to a stop at the corner. Just ahead, a man steps from the doorway of a nearby building, making His way to the bus.
He’s smiling awkwardly and expending too much effort. His hair is long, thin, blond and appears greasy. His gate is stuttered; He’s struggling. He’s still more than fifteen feet away.
He looks to be more than three hundred pounds. A button-down drapes over His green t-shirt, billowing slightly as He tries to quicken His pace. His khaki shorts are just past His knees, exposing massive calves. His left knee seems to buckle slightly as He goes.
The bus stops, dropping off two passengers. I reach the sidewalk and glance toward Him. He’s not close enough to catch the driver’s attention. The bus doors close.
I could step quickly to the doors, waving through the glass at the driver. He would open the door as I feign looking through my wallet for my transit pass. I would stall until He can reach the door. Then I’d step aside and continue walking.
Instead, I watch Him reach the rear doors in time for the bus to pull off through the intersection. He starts walking back toward the building, that same awkward smile on His face. Like this happens to Him all the time.
I walk to my stop and onto the train, all the while replaying what I could have done to help Him out. The bus route came around often, especially this time of day. He would get on the next one in a few minutes.
I rationalize it, justifying my inaction. No one else would have done it. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. No one else would have considered it. I’ll do something for someone that will even the overall score.
Next time.