The darkness was suffocating; the kind that made you feel as though it was something almost living and surrounding you, waiting to pounce. If I hadn’t stumbled – and when I say stumbled, please take me literally – on the poor soul in front of me, I would’ve been out of here.
But there he was – lying in a heap on the sidewalk about four blocks from my house. And what had started out as a pleasant evening walk on a late fall day had turned as quickly as had the sudden mist dropped the temperature and the light dimmed. By the time I’d turned the last corner, it was uncomfortably dark. And then I nearly tripped over the man I hadn’t seen.
“Sir?” I whispered. Then more loudly, “Sir!”
I touched him, then poked him. I leaned closer to see whether he was pale (Pale? In the dark? I don’t know what I was thinking.), shook him slightly, then pushed him from his lumpy state onto his back. There was no response. I checked for a bump (none) and bodily fluids in the vicinity (none, to my great relief – so much of a relief, I felt like dancing except for the unfortunate situation). I looked around at the empty street for help, at the houses; their cheery lights reaching into their yards, but no farther. I didn’t blame them. If I were a cheery light, I’d prefer the familiarity of my own yard, too.
“Help! Someone! Someone needs help here!”
Nothing. I reached for my phone before recalling I’d left it at the house, thinking (at the time) how much I needed the quiet of nature as I walked. Oh, I’d gotten some quiet alright; just not the kind I needed.
As I pressed on his neck and wrist, yes, feeling a faint pulse, I noticed headlights in the distance and (praise be!) growing nearer. I ran as far as I dared into the street and waved and shouted. The car pulled over and stopped, and a tired-looking man got out.
“What’s your problem, Miss?”
I pointed. “There’s a man passed out on the sidewalk. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I can’t rouse him.”
As an afterthought I added, “I can’t just leave him, you know?”
The driver looked at the man, then at me, and answered, “Oh. I know.”
I thought to myself he must wish he was home even more than I was wishing it. But he had a car and I didn’t. He was stronger than I was. And though we both seemed to feel some sort of obligation, neither of us was glad of it.
He pulled his phone from a jacket pocket and talked as he walked to the stranger on the sidewalk, checking for a pulse, sniffing his breath, and looking up at me.
“Help me get him into my car. I’ll drive him back to the hospital.”
“Back?”
“I just got off a twelve-hour shift.”
We half lifted and half pulled until the man was slumped into his backseat.
Back in my little house, I double-checked the lock, took a quick shower, and put tea on to brew. And as I made sure the cheery lights from my house reached all the way to the street, I sat in a cozy chair and thought about pleasant evening walks, the quiet of nature, and unsettling situations. I thought of strangers who make bad decisions and cause those who make good decisions unmitigated trouble. I wondered which type of stranger the driver thought I was. I sipped my tea, loving how it’s warmth traveled from first sip deep into my veins. And I thought about the kindness of strangers.
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