When Good People Make You Cry...
On my way to work this morning by bus, my daily routine of watching the Ottawa Sidewalk Theatre players walk by oblivious to their captive drive-by audience, when an unexpected act pratfalls in, stage right, and a literal 4th-wall break occurs...
A weathered, emaciated man with glasses appears in the corner of my vision as the bus pulls up to its stop next to a local school. I assume he must've been walking, but when he enters the window pane viewscreen, he's just rolling off the sidewalk and into a grassy gully. The grass has been cut recently, because yellow wisps stick to him like anorexic leeches as he tumbles almost comically in the depression, bumping his head into the chain-link fence. The old man is now flailing about like an overturned turtle, he clearly can't get up on his own power, and you can see the helplessness and frustration etched on his creased, leathery face.
But he's not down more than a few seconds when the bus doors nearest to where I sit suddenly whir open, and a young hispanic fellow -- maybe in his mid-20s, buzzcut and dark shorts with t-shirt -- leaps out, throws his stachel bag carelessly to the side, and rushes to the fallen old man's aid. This all happens very quickly, but you'd think the bus window teleplay was set on Slo-Mo Vision because the scene takes forever to unfurl.
The old man catches sight of the hispanic youth lasering straight towards him, and I can see fear in his eyes now, added to that sense of panicked helplessness. But the young man just reaches out his hands and slowly helps the aged fellah up -- a careful, delicate process wherein the paper-thin helpee almost stumbles back down twice as he first mildly struggles against the help. But he finally switches personality gears, and accepts assistance gratefully upon the muddled realization that the bus-spawned samaritan isn't out to harm him.
The verticalization process finally complete, the old man stumbles and bumbles a drawled-out "thangg you verrah verrah mudge". It's apparent now that he is either very much fully three sheets to the pink elephant wind, or experiencing one helluva case of chronic ground-level vertigo. He then starts to walk -- though I'd call it more a spasmic, syncopated shamble than a walk -- off to the left. Meanwhile, the bus has not moved (the driver must have seen what was unfolding through his side-view mirror) and the door is still open, allowing the youth to grab his bag from the sidewalk and hop back on. He joins the audience again without a word, the bus closes its doors, and we're on the beaten asphalt path to my workplace once more.
The grande finale to this audience-participation exercise? The withered man, stumbling down the sidewalk, half-turning as the bus passes him again, almost falling on his face as he attempts to wave (it looks like he's grasping through lime jello at invisible fireflies, flitting three feet to the left of him). You can see him mouthing over and over again, "thangg you thangg you thangg you"...
And me, with eyes welling up, tears just peeking up from behind the lower lids like young children playing hide-and-seek, peering up excitedly from the bushes at the seeker's every move. A curtain call of wet eyes rubbed by hands trying to hide the surprise spike of emotion.
***
There's just something about catching people doing good things completely unscripted, 100% improvised on the spot, that sets me off and makes me forget that I'm supposed be a macho-esque man doing nothing more than maybe grunting satisfaction at the whole affair. But the timing for this breakfast cabaret was never more appropriate. I'd been spending a lot of time these past few weeks thinking about us hoo-mans, and not many of these thoughts have been pleasant ones.
To be reminded so abruptly that within all of us is that unconscious spark of compassion for your fellow person, to *see* someone prove that deep down, we *can* all be kind, caring people to people we've never met...
...that just reinforces just how there IS good out there.
And, well, that makes life good.
A weathered, emaciated man with glasses appears in the corner of my vision as the bus pulls up to its stop next to a local school. I assume he must've been walking, but when he enters the window pane viewscreen, he's just rolling off the sidewalk and into a grassy gully. The grass has been cut recently, because yellow wisps stick to him like anorexic leeches as he tumbles almost comically in the depression, bumping his head into the chain-link fence. The old man is now flailing about like an overturned turtle, he clearly can't get up on his own power, and you can see the helplessness and frustration etched on his creased, leathery face.
But he's not down more than a few seconds when the bus doors nearest to where I sit suddenly whir open, and a young hispanic fellow -- maybe in his mid-20s, buzzcut and dark shorts with t-shirt -- leaps out, throws his stachel bag carelessly to the side, and rushes to the fallen old man's aid. This all happens very quickly, but you'd think the bus window teleplay was set on Slo-Mo Vision because the scene takes forever to unfurl.
The old man catches sight of the hispanic youth lasering straight towards him, and I can see fear in his eyes now, added to that sense of panicked helplessness. But the young man just reaches out his hands and slowly helps the aged fellah up -- a careful, delicate process wherein the paper-thin helpee almost stumbles back down twice as he first mildly struggles against the help. But he finally switches personality gears, and accepts assistance gratefully upon the muddled realization that the bus-spawned samaritan isn't out to harm him.
The verticalization process finally complete, the old man stumbles and bumbles a drawled-out "thangg you verrah verrah mudge". It's apparent now that he is either very much fully three sheets to the pink elephant wind, or experiencing one helluva case of chronic ground-level vertigo. He then starts to walk -- though I'd call it more a spasmic, syncopated shamble than a walk -- off to the left. Meanwhile, the bus has not moved (the driver must have seen what was unfolding through his side-view mirror) and the door is still open, allowing the youth to grab his bag from the sidewalk and hop back on. He joins the audience again without a word, the bus closes its doors, and we're on the beaten asphalt path to my workplace once more.
The grande finale to this audience-participation exercise? The withered man, stumbling down the sidewalk, half-turning as the bus passes him again, almost falling on his face as he attempts to wave (it looks like he's grasping through lime jello at invisible fireflies, flitting three feet to the left of him). You can see him mouthing over and over again, "thangg you thangg you thangg you"...
And me, with eyes welling up, tears just peeking up from behind the lower lids like young children playing hide-and-seek, peering up excitedly from the bushes at the seeker's every move. A curtain call of wet eyes rubbed by hands trying to hide the surprise spike of emotion.
***
There's just something about catching people doing good things completely unscripted, 100% improvised on the spot, that sets me off and makes me forget that I'm supposed be a macho-esque man doing nothing more than maybe grunting satisfaction at the whole affair. But the timing for this breakfast cabaret was never more appropriate. I'd been spending a lot of time these past few weeks thinking about us hoo-mans, and not many of these thoughts have been pleasant ones.
To be reminded so abruptly that within all of us is that unconscious spark of compassion for your fellow person, to *see* someone prove that deep down, we *can* all be kind, caring people to people we've never met...
...that just reinforces just how there IS good out there.
And, well, that makes life good.