The Not-So-Good Samaritan, Part 2

“Where do you live, sir?” she asked, expecting some confusion.

He answered without a hitch, “I live at 4033 Spottswood.”

“That’s a long way from here. How did you get all the way out here?”

His answer was firm, slightly defensive, “Well, a man’s got to go to town sometimes, I reckon.”

She didn’t correct his geography. She offered to give him "a ride home, so you can get your shoe.”

“That would be mighty kind of you. And, if you don’t mind…hell, I need some cigarettes. If we could stop at Walgreens on the way.”

Realizing she'd forgotten her manners, “What’s your name, sir?” she asked.

Straightening up, he answered proudly, “Arthur Lee Sommerfield the Third! And you?”

“Terry.”

“Terry? What a delightful name! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said with a bow. They shook hands.

This isn’t so bad, she thought. He’s a sweet old man. He doesn’t deserve to be out here wandering around in one shoe away from home, wherever that is.

In front of the Post Office, he stopped, leaned on the garbage can. “City Hall owes me $803.”

“They do?”

“Yes, but I moved and I forgot to give my new address. And that money comes in handy twice a month.”

Post office customers glanced at the suburbanite talking to the homeless man, gave her a questioning look, but none stopped. She adjusted her posture, establishing herself as the Good Samaritan, but wishing someone would join her.

He was in no hurry to leave the garbage can, so she prodded, “The car’s right over here. I’m taking you home, remember.”

“And what a fine automobile that is!” he said gallantly, as if it were a BMW instead of the shabby Mazda in dire need of a new paint job. She opened the door, wishing she had the minivan, dreading the close proximity.

“So, Mr. Sommerfield, is your wife still alive?”

He seemed to think about it for a moment. “I don’t know.” She thought he was confused, but then he said triumphantly, “She got too uppity, so I divorced her!” He made this sound like a war story in which he’d routed the enemy.

She was beginning to think he might not be so sweet after all.

Minutes later, in the nursing home parking lot, she told him she needed to go in and make a phone call. He seemed oblivious to the surroundings, and said, “Take all the time you need.”

Inside, she made her way past the maze of wheelchairs, avoiding eye contact with the people in them, thinking, “Why are they all crowded here in the lobby - people can barely get past.” Old or infirm people like that - always waiting, hoping for some kind of contact, made her feel vaguely guilty. She hurried to the reception desk.

“No Arthur Sommerfield here,” said the receptionist. But, eager to break from her ordinary routine, get in on the rescue mission, she tried to help. She found out after some calls to the hospital that he’d been released from the ER at 4:00 a.m. that day. So, 11 hours later, he was alone, 2 blocks from the ER, missing a shoe.

She headed back to the car, half-expecting, half-hoping he wouldn’t be there. But he was sitting there as normal as could be, as content as he was earlier while leaning on the garbage can, all the time in the world.