With the arrival of each season—baseball, football, hockey and Christmas—I mosey over to my neighborhood barber shop for a haircut. It’s a short walk and, with Randy the dog guiding the way, my mind is free to wander like a free range chicken. But I tune in the traffic pattern as we near the corner of Ashland and Foster. As I calculate the red light/green light sequence, I feel a tug on my sleeve.
“You get on the bus here,” says the little old lady, pulling me like a truant child toward what must be the bus stop.
“Not today, ma’am,” I reply. “Today I’m just crossing the street to the barber shop.”
“No, this is where you get on the bus,” she says, raspy and urgent.
“No I don’t,” I say. “You get on the bus. I cross the street.” I fake left and run right. But she grabs my sleeve again and swings me around.
“I know you want to be helpful and I appreciate that,” I say. “But I’m really not interested in getting on the bus. I’m interested in crossing Foster.” I take one step and then realize that, in the sleeve-tugging and swinging around, I’ve lost my bearings. She senses my confusion and leads me toward the bus stop again, all the while shouting, “The bus is coming! The bus is coming!”
I hear the bus stop and the door open—whoosh! —and the old lady yelling, ”That man needs help!” to the bus driver, who now stands next to me asking, “You need help?”
“Yes, get me away from her for starters,” I tell him. ”then point me due south so I can cross Foster.” He does this without question or comment.
Thus, having regained my sense of place in the universe, I progress toward my goal, wondering where I’d be if not for the kindness of strangers.