Kindness

There is always a reason to dismiss them. Suspicion that they’re not really all that hard up … just too lazy to work. Doubts about what they’ll actually use the money for. Or whether they’ll actually eat the food you give them, or toss it aside, laughing, after you drive away.

A lot of them look downcast, or broken. Is it an act? Some scrawl a joke on their placard, hoping a little humor will break down our inhibitions. Not a few, of course, look dangerous, or sullen, or crazy … or oddly smug, like they’re daring you not to give them anything.

The girl on the curb that evening didn’t look like any of those things. She did look a shade too young (college-age, maybe?) to be asking for handouts. And her big black dog didn’t look like he felt too well. But she had an infectious smile and easy laugh that she passed on to those who rolled down their windows and held out a bill or two.

My wife, less impulsive and considerably less of a pushover than I am, watched her.

“Wish I had some food,” she said.

“You want to give her something?” I asked, surprised, but thinking the same thing.

“Yes.” She started to reach for her purse, but the light changed, and the impatient traffic surged forward. We swept past the smiling girl and turned with the streaming cars onto the twilit freeway. A mile or two later, she signaled and began angling toward an exit.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Thought I might get her some things at the grocery.”

We found the grocery, but it took some time. I looked up the number for the nearest shelter, scribbling directions and phone numbers on the flyleaf of a New Testament we found in the glove compartment. She ran in to look for apples, protein bars, something the dog could eat.

Hurrying down an aisle, she found her way blocked by a teary young woman with a baby, asking for a few dollars. Preoccupied with one mission of mercy, she had little time (or cash) for another. She told the young mother she couldn’t help her. A moment later, a spark of conscience caught up with her … but by then, the woman was gone.

We sped back the half-dozen miles to the other young woman and her dog. It was dark now, and we hit every light. We debated how to time our arrival at the curb to ensure a smooth hand-off that wouldn't paralyze traffic. By the time we reached the spot, though, 45 minutes had passed. The girl and the dog were gone.

We drove home quietly, wondering at our impulses … wondering why they seemed for naught. We placed the bag of apples and protein bars on a spare corner of the kitchen counter, knowing we’d travel that same street a couple more times during the week. We kept leaving the house without the bag, though.

It didn’t matter. We’ve never seen her again.

Out of state a few weeks ago, I spent half-an-hour trying to find a cab that would swing out my out-of-the-way way. Finally, one agreed to dispatch a driver who’d be passing in my general area, en route to the airport.

He was a grand older fellow, as (in my limited experience) so many cabbies are. We to-ed and fro-ed on the weather, the countryside, the local culture and customs. The ride itself only took a few minutes; I was closer to my next destination than I knew. I scrambled out the door and began fishing in my wallet for the fare. He waved me off.

“It wasn’t that far,” he said. “Enjoyed the conversation.” He waved again and pulled away.

Several days later, my wife and I walked into our family’s regular Sunday lunchtime haunt. A college girl who’s worked there for a while called us by name as we came through the door. She came over with a tall cup in her hand and handed it to me. “Here’s your Arnold Palmer,” she said, smiling. (She thinks it’s a funny name for a drink.) She wouldn’t take any money for it.

At work the next morning, came an email. “Hey, Chris. I think you may have left your car’s lights on.” I walked out to the parking lot; in fact, I’d left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. Without the note, it probably would have run that way for hours.

About a week after that, I was sitting in another regular lunch spot of mine. It had been closed for several months for renovations, but I was pleased to see, walking back in for the first time in so long, that they still had the same older woman working there. She is long on feisty and iffy on social skills, but she works hard and keeps alert to what needs doing. I greeted her, as she shuffled by, mumbling to herself and favoring, as always, her bad leg.

She shuffled back my way a little while later, asking if ‘d like a refill. I tried to explain about the Arnold Palmer; her face screwed up with the effort of remembering. And at the prospect, now that the restaurant was more crowded, of pushing her bad leg through the hurrying lunchtime confusion.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay,” she said, relieved, and moved away. A moment later, she was back – her tongue clinched between her teeth. “I can do it,” she said, with more courage than confidence. I tried to dissuade her, but she grabbed my cup and hurried away. “Tea and lemonade. Tea and lemonade,” she kept murmuring, as she plunged into the crowd.

Minutes later, she re-emerged from the general melee’, face all business but eyes shining.

“Tea and lemonade?” she asked. I smiled. She handed it to me and scurried back down the aisle.

I seemed to be accumulating a considerable debt to society – so many showing such kindness and generosity to me, and so few opportunities for me to return the favor. These little mercies and graces can’t help but make a guy all that more conscious of how much he has to be thankful for. Mindful of how many good, caring, warm and compassionate people walk around us, past us, beside us every day.

Another week, and I was pulling out of a mall parking lot. Watching for my chance to join the teeming traffic, I glanced over to see a young woman, not unlike the one my wife and I had seen across town a month before. I couldn’t see her face.

She was standing in a spot nearly always occupied by someone asking for a handout. She held up the usual sign. It was cold, and starting to rain.

Before I could weigh all my sudden, conflicting impulses, my opening came. I pulled out, trying to glance back, but too many cars were passing too fast. I was looking to move over a few lanes and circle back into the mall, but the light changed.

And then, I was on the freeway, heading for home. I thought of the rain falling, and how I could hit a drive-through right by where the young woman was standing, get her something warm to sip and nibble. But the mall was getting farther away every second.

It occurred to me that, once home, I could recruit my wife to go for a little drive back to the mall. A chance, maybe, to make up for our misbegotten efforts of the month before. But that idea fell a little flat. She was tired, the paper-grading was going too slow. And it was cold.

“Well, maybe I’ll just head back myself then,” I said, sitting down to pet the dog for a moment and hear the events of the evening. The couch was especially comfortable. My wife was giggling at something funny on TV. Soon, I was giggling, too. The mall seemed a long way to go.

The rain was a steady drizzle by then. Surely the young woman had moved on.

I assumed it was a young woman. Probably not the same one, but I couldn’t really tell.

It’s easier to forget them, you know, when you don’t see their faces.