The Not-So-Good Samaritan, Part 1

She was proud of herself for holding her tongue. She hadn't said a word when he told their son to take the minivan to school, so he could try to fix the 15 year old Mazda. She didn’t go out there at 8:15 to remind him that she needed to leave for work by 8:25 at the latest. She didn’t say what she was thinking, which was, “Why in the world are you attempting to do this NOW?”

She was good. She held her tongue. She also held her “thank you” and her kiss, giving only a cool good-bye as she hurriedly backed out of the driveway, leaving him with wrench in hand to watch her go, to feel her disapproval without her having marred her resolve to not say anything.

The car still wasn’t fixed. So it was back to the old routine. At red lights, she had to shift into neutral and gun the gas to keep the car from dying. No. She wouldn’t call and tell him. She was going to make it to work on time after all. Her heart softened as she thought about how eager he was to get the car fixed; how disappointed he would be. Nonetheless, at each read light, she still grumbled about his timing.

That afternoon all was forgiven. Work had gone well, she’d left a few minutes early, the weather was beautiful, and she was looking forward to a long walk when she got home. Skillfully navigating the red-lights, she felt grateful and optimistic. He tries so hard; he'll get it fixed, she thought.

Driving down Park Avenue, she noticed an old man standing on the sidewalk, stopped, as if lost. He was wearing a coat, blue pants, but only one shoe. Thinking he’d wandered off from the nursing home down the street, worried that he might be disoriented and wander into the busy street, she turned right, found a parking spot just as the car died. She hurried to find the man, still standing in the same stop, staring alternately at his feet and straight ahead at the poster on the side of the bus stop.

Aware of the cars driving past, aware of herself in her bright red coat stopping to help an old man, she asked loudly, “Sir, is everything okay?”

He looked up; their eyes met. He looked back down. “Well, no. It seems I’m missing a shoe. It looks like I’ll need to go to Florsheim’s and buy a new pair.”

“What do you think happened to your shoe?” She guessed he was 80 something. He had two pre-historic looking teeth, was wearing gloves and a hat, but carried nothing else. The blue sweat pants were stained, but he didn’t have the look of someone who lived on the street. He smelled of cigarettes and grime.

“I was at a party at my lady friend’s, and it went way into the night. Everyone left about 2:00 a.m. and when I woke up, my shoe was gone.”

This will be a good story, she thought, already visualizing the telling at dinner that night.