The Good Samaritan
This evening I went to the ATM and withdrew $60. On my way back to my car, this guy approached me and said, “Hey wait a minute, can I ask you something?” My first thought was that he might try to mug me. I was in an off mood, sized him up and down, and concluded that I could take him. Then it occurred to me that it was still light out and, though there wasn’t anyone in the parking lot at the moment, there are lots of people in the area. So, either he was an idiot-thief or he had intentions other than stealing my money. Still, I sort of widened my gait, puffed out my chest a little, made my alertness and badassness evident, the same strategy I might employ to ward off a hungry bear.
He was dressed in a polo shirt with blue horizontal stripes and baggy khaki colored pants. He was white, probably in his mid 20’s, and had his hair cropped close. In his right hand, he was holding a half-empty cup of water. Or was it half-full? No matter. He had narrow teeth which were slightly misaligned. A dentist would recommend braces or maybe a retainer, but it wasn’t something about which he was likely to feel self-conscious.
“I’m having a terrible day,” he began. “My car broke down and I’m waiting for a tow truck. I need someone to help me out. The only cash I have on me is $37.34 and my ATM card is at home. I need someone to give me either $13.66 or give me a ride home, so I can get my card. I’ll pay you back tonight.”
He could tell that I was hedging. I was trying to determine if his mathematical mistake made him more or less likable.
“Listen, no one will help me out. I’m asking you because you look like a really nice guy. I’ll give you my phone number or you can give me yours and I’ll pay you back tonight. Look, it’ll be really good Karma for you. If I was in your shoes,” he continued, pointing at my sandal-clad bare feet, “I would help you out.”
Sensing still that I was unconvinced he persisted, “I’ll give you my house key as collateral, whatever man. I just really need someone to help me out and no one will. Everyone’s being an #@%$%*^ and I’m asking you, because you look really nice.”
My first instinct was so tell him no. Maybe the best thing to do was to just walk away. Due perhaps to a character flaw, I couldn’t just walk away, I first had to explain myself.
“Look buddy. I’ve had so many people come up to me and tell me a story just like yours and you never know who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. I just don’t think…”
He interjected, “Look, you can come to my car and wait with me. Or, if you don’t want to give me money, can you just give me a ride home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Down past Cole Park Plaza. Do you know where that is?”
I did. It was about a 10 minute drive from where we stood.
I was a little uneasy giving him a ride home, so I thought I would help him troubleshoot. “Isn’t there someone you can call? A friend? Family?”
“My mom lives in Raleigh. And my girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, goes to UNC, but she’s my ex, and hates my guts. I don’t’ know anyone else in the area.”
“Why don’t you use the cash you have to take a taxi home to get your ATM card? Then you’ll have enough to pay the tow truck driver.”
“Uh. But by the time I get back, the tow truck will be gone. And also, that’s such a hassle.”
Well, I suppose you all know how the story ends.
I told him, “No,” apologized, re-puffed my by-now-deflated chest, and walked away.
About what was I apologizing? Partially, I was apologizing for my philosophy. I don’t believe that I have a positive duty to help total strangers. I’m not sure if that’s right, but it’s what I believe at the moment. I do, however, believe that I have a positive duty to recognize each and every person’s humanity. The end result of this is that I will listen to your story, I will look you in the eye, and I will give you my earnest reply. Of course, you can’t spend my ‘I’m sorry’ but I imagine it’s better than being ignored completely. I was also apologizing for my determination, based on who knows what, that if the situation were reversed, as he suggested, that he would not, in fact, help me out. I was sorry that I didn’t have more faith in this man that I did not know. But more so, I was apologizing for human nature. The trouble with giving handouts is that it only encourages people to seek them out. The more handouts that are available, the more people will be willing to lie to get them. It’s a big, ugly downward spiral. And because so many people are trying to take advantage of the situation, those in real need end up being disadvantaged.
I distinctly remember the last time I made an exception to my rule. It was almost 3 years ago. I was in Victoria Station in London waiting for my law school friend Bill to arrive. He was coming to England to visit some relatives and we were to grab lunch. This guy approached me with his story. He was probably in his mid 30’s, skinny, his skin was brown. He told me he was in a bind. Through his spotty English, he explained to me that he was here seeking political asylum. He was to take a train to some other station to pick up a transfer, but he got confused and got off the train too early. He now stood in Victoria station without enough money to get back on the train. He was on his way to a hearing that would permit him to stay in the country. As it was, he was going to miss the trial due to an honest mistake, which would lead to his deportation. This story was completely ridiculous! Then he says to me, “Can I have some of your water? I’ve been traveling all day and I didn’t have money to buy water on the train and my lips and mouth are so dry.” This harkened back images of The Good Samaritan story from the Bible that I had heard growing up. I was sold. If he was scamming me, then so be it. I took the guy across the street, bought him the largest bottle of water they had, bought him a train ticket and sent him on his way. Maybe I played the fool. If so, I’m out 10 or 15 bucks.
But what if he was telling the truth? What if he took that train ticket and rushed as fast as he could to the hearing. What if he ran up the stairs and burst through the doors only to find that he was too late, that his case had just been adjourned. But, then, what if he told the judge his story, how he made an honest mistake and got off the wrong train. And what if he relates the story I just told you. But, then, what if the judge didn’t believe him? And if so, do you think the judge would give pause right as he was stamping the deportation orders if he happened to see, just then, out of the corner of his eye, that large 2.5 litre bottle of natural spring water this man now held in his right hand? And if so, wouldn’t I, through elegant circumstance, be part of the rest of the story, too? The part where he gets a good honest job, meets an honest woman, starts a family, and relates to them this very story, time and again.
Then imagine that there was no judge, no honest woman, no kids, no retelling of the story. Imagine that your suspicions were dead-on. Imagine that it was a scam, that the whole lot of it was a lie. Imagine that the last thing you see before the credits roll is the villain's wry smile.
Then rewrite the story so it took place in a world where stories didn’t end like that.
I guess the bad thing about not knowing the truth is that you don’t know anything. The good thing about not knowing the truth is that it allows you believe anything. Bound by knoweldge of what actually happens, a writer would simply be a reporter.
As I got into my car, I heard the guy in the blue striped polo approach a girl getting out of her car. “Hey miss, can I ask you something?”
She snapped, “No.”
He was dressed in a polo shirt with blue horizontal stripes and baggy khaki colored pants. He was white, probably in his mid 20’s, and had his hair cropped close. In his right hand, he was holding a half-empty cup of water. Or was it half-full? No matter. He had narrow teeth which were slightly misaligned. A dentist would recommend braces or maybe a retainer, but it wasn’t something about which he was likely to feel self-conscious.
“I’m having a terrible day,” he began. “My car broke down and I’m waiting for a tow truck. I need someone to help me out. The only cash I have on me is $37.34 and my ATM card is at home. I need someone to give me either $13.66 or give me a ride home, so I can get my card. I’ll pay you back tonight.”
He could tell that I was hedging. I was trying to determine if his mathematical mistake made him more or less likable.
“Listen, no one will help me out. I’m asking you because you look like a really nice guy. I’ll give you my phone number or you can give me yours and I’ll pay you back tonight. Look, it’ll be really good Karma for you. If I was in your shoes,” he continued, pointing at my sandal-clad bare feet, “I would help you out.”
Sensing still that I was unconvinced he persisted, “I’ll give you my house key as collateral, whatever man. I just really need someone to help me out and no one will. Everyone’s being an #@%$%*^ and I’m asking you, because you look really nice.”
My first instinct was so tell him no. Maybe the best thing to do was to just walk away. Due perhaps to a character flaw, I couldn’t just walk away, I first had to explain myself.
“Look buddy. I’ve had so many people come up to me and tell me a story just like yours and you never know who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. I just don’t think…”
He interjected, “Look, you can come to my car and wait with me. Or, if you don’t want to give me money, can you just give me a ride home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Down past Cole Park Plaza. Do you know where that is?”
I did. It was about a 10 minute drive from where we stood.
I was a little uneasy giving him a ride home, so I thought I would help him troubleshoot. “Isn’t there someone you can call? A friend? Family?”
“My mom lives in Raleigh. And my girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, goes to UNC, but she’s my ex, and hates my guts. I don’t’ know anyone else in the area.”
“Why don’t you use the cash you have to take a taxi home to get your ATM card? Then you’ll have enough to pay the tow truck driver.”
“Uh. But by the time I get back, the tow truck will be gone. And also, that’s such a hassle.”
Well, I suppose you all know how the story ends.
I told him, “No,” apologized, re-puffed my by-now-deflated chest, and walked away.
About what was I apologizing? Partially, I was apologizing for my philosophy. I don’t believe that I have a positive duty to help total strangers. I’m not sure if that’s right, but it’s what I believe at the moment. I do, however, believe that I have a positive duty to recognize each and every person’s humanity. The end result of this is that I will listen to your story, I will look you in the eye, and I will give you my earnest reply. Of course, you can’t spend my ‘I’m sorry’ but I imagine it’s better than being ignored completely. I was also apologizing for my determination, based on who knows what, that if the situation were reversed, as he suggested, that he would not, in fact, help me out. I was sorry that I didn’t have more faith in this man that I did not know. But more so, I was apologizing for human nature. The trouble with giving handouts is that it only encourages people to seek them out. The more handouts that are available, the more people will be willing to lie to get them. It’s a big, ugly downward spiral. And because so many people are trying to take advantage of the situation, those in real need end up being disadvantaged.
I distinctly remember the last time I made an exception to my rule. It was almost 3 years ago. I was in Victoria Station in London waiting for my law school friend Bill to arrive. He was coming to England to visit some relatives and we were to grab lunch. This guy approached me with his story. He was probably in his mid 30’s, skinny, his skin was brown. He told me he was in a bind. Through his spotty English, he explained to me that he was here seeking political asylum. He was to take a train to some other station to pick up a transfer, but he got confused and got off the train too early. He now stood in Victoria station without enough money to get back on the train. He was on his way to a hearing that would permit him to stay in the country. As it was, he was going to miss the trial due to an honest mistake, which would lead to his deportation. This story was completely ridiculous! Then he says to me, “Can I have some of your water? I’ve been traveling all day and I didn’t have money to buy water on the train and my lips and mouth are so dry.” This harkened back images of The Good Samaritan story from the Bible that I had heard growing up. I was sold. If he was scamming me, then so be it. I took the guy across the street, bought him the largest bottle of water they had, bought him a train ticket and sent him on his way. Maybe I played the fool. If so, I’m out 10 or 15 bucks.
But what if he was telling the truth? What if he took that train ticket and rushed as fast as he could to the hearing. What if he ran up the stairs and burst through the doors only to find that he was too late, that his case had just been adjourned. But, then, what if he told the judge his story, how he made an honest mistake and got off the wrong train. And what if he relates the story I just told you. But, then, what if the judge didn’t believe him? And if so, do you think the judge would give pause right as he was stamping the deportation orders if he happened to see, just then, out of the corner of his eye, that large 2.5 litre bottle of natural spring water this man now held in his right hand? And if so, wouldn’t I, through elegant circumstance, be part of the rest of the story, too? The part where he gets a good honest job, meets an honest woman, starts a family, and relates to them this very story, time and again.
Then imagine that there was no judge, no honest woman, no kids, no retelling of the story. Imagine that your suspicions were dead-on. Imagine that it was a scam, that the whole lot of it was a lie. Imagine that the last thing you see before the credits roll is the villain's wry smile.
Then rewrite the story so it took place in a world where stories didn’t end like that.
I guess the bad thing about not knowing the truth is that you don’t know anything. The good thing about not knowing the truth is that it allows you believe anything. Bound by knoweldge of what actually happens, a writer would simply be a reporter.
As I got into my car, I heard the guy in the blue striped polo approach a girl getting out of her car. “Hey miss, can I ask you something?”
She snapped, “No.”
posted by Donkey Boy at Saturday, April 01, 2006
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