Douglas and I were walking home recently, when we came to a
crosswalk at the top of some stairs we regularly pass on the way to the
Consulate. An old man stood there holding a cane in one hand. His pants were
half-way down his legs and he was futzing around the front of them with his
free hand. I immediately averted my eyes and moved to the other side of
Douglas, telling him that I wanted him in between us as a buffer. The light
turned, and I was about to bolt across the street when Douglas said, “He fell.”
The man had fallen, not on the sidewalk, but down the
stairs. These stairs are metal steps, three flights.
I’m going to interrupt this narrative and posit that
Douglas, in his response, and I, in my inward and outward responses, represent three
factions of society.
When the man fell, I thought, He belongs there. I
thought this because: I assumed he was drunk, I assumed he was being vulgar
with his pants down and his hand messing around in the front of them, and
because, somewhere in my mind, it stood to reason that if someone is a drunk
pervert, they deserve to fall down stairs. I’m ashamed that I thought that.
Douglas ran down the stairs and I followed fumbling with my
phone trying to find the emergency number I’d programmed in for convenience.
Douglas pointed at a woman nearby and told her to call for help, twice. She
did. The man was lying face down, upside down on the steps bleeding from his
head. His cane was a half flight of steps above him. He wasn’t moving. Douglas
felt for a pulse. We knew not to move him. Douglas talked to him to see if he’d
respond. I dug into my purse and took out some tissues to put under his head
for a bit of comfort. The man started to stir, tried to sit up. “Спокойтесь,” Peace, Douglas gently
said, rubbing his back. The man kept lifting his head, trying to move. So,
assuming nothing vital was broken, Douglas tried to straighten him out so he
wasn’t lying across so many steps at such a steep angle. I put my hand on his
head and silently prayed. The man found the tissues and blotted his head. I
held his other hand. The hand I held was missing fingers, either entirely or
partially. The stubs that weren’t covered in dirty gauze were black. It sickened me to hold his hand. But I thought of all the
stories I’d heard of people who were comforted simply by someone holding their
hand. So, I held it and prayed and tried to drive away the ugly thoughts popping
into and out of my mind. (I’d better not catch anything.)
I never smelled any alcohol as I crouched beside him.
He closed his eyes as though he might fall asleep. Douglas
told him not to, then asked him what his name was, Alexei. He was forty-four.
Alexei is gray-haired, weathered, thin as a rail and stooped at 44 years.
The bleeding stopped. Once in a while, he tried to move.
Douglas kept saying, “Спокойтесь,”
talking to him, using his name. I wondered if he wanted his cane, perhaps his
only possession, so I brought it to him. He then tried to stand up. Douglas
told him to wait.
A small crowd had gathered. Only one man used the steps,
walking over Alexei. He was polite about it. A few kids climbed up the side of
the railing of the steps, leaving us undisturbed with Alexei.
When paramedics showed up, one came down the steps, one
stayed up at the top looking down. The one who stayed up at the top looked like
Douglas’s brother-in-law. Funny the things you notice in difficult situations.
Douglas told the responder who came down Alexei’s name and age. He practically
ignored Douglas. He didn’t even cursorily examine Alexei, he just stood over
him and told him to get up, that he needed to get into the truck, which was
parked on the street a flight and a half of steps up. But Alexei couldn’t get
up, though he tried. The responder reached to help Alexei get up, but only
grabbed the back of his jacket in one hand and pulled. He did this after
putting on gloves. Douglas, with his sore shoulder, did most of the assistance
getting Alexei up.
So you have a picture of our society: Those who jump into
action when they need to; those who ignore the needs of others, judging that
they’ve brought it on themselves; and those who, with a load of misgivings, do
the right thing. I’m glad I was with Douglas that afternoon. I’m glad I’m
married to someone who sets such a good example for me and others.
When we got to the top of the steps, Douglas heard a young
boy say to him (in Russian) “It would be better if there were more people like
you.” The boy was right.
A couple of weeks later, Douglas saw Alexei on the street.
He approached him and introduced himself. Alexei remembered Douglas helping
him. He said he had been injured in fighting, whether in the military or not,
Douglas wasn’t sure.
I want to close with a quote from Henri-Frédérick
Amiel. “Life is short. We don’t have much time to gladden the hearts of those
who walk this way with us. So, be swift to love, and make haste to be kind.”
