It was late tonight, lightly raining, after splitting from my friends after seeing an improv comedy show. I stopped to get some gas at a station I've passed by hundreds of times but never used. It's got the cashiers in an isolated glass room (assumed bulletproof). It's next to a Waffle House, Days Inn, and a strip joint called the Diamond Club. A couple of guys my age wander out eating Reese's Pieces and looking pale, not of full faculties. But they keep to themselves.
I'm filling up, watching around me, somewhat tense. In the back of my mind, I'm reminded that I'm fortunate that this is the worst of it. That fear of something bad happening to me is my most common woe. Not anything actually happening. I guess part of this is me looking in retrospect, but I do want to put this post in perspective.
My thoughts are broken by a man approaching in my general direction. He's middle-aged, wearing normal, clean clothing. He's got a bag that looks like it could have come from the gas station store. He doesn't look overtly threatening. But I'm hoping our brief eye contact doesn't mean his increasing proximity is targeted at me.
"How'd you like to make $40?"
Slight shock. He keeps a reasonable distance. The only thoughts in my head are that he might be asking for me to buy him something for him. But he's not a teenager, and I look close to one. It should be the other way, if anything. So what does he want? My mind glances the strip joint. Is this a joke? Surely he doesn't want that kind of "service". I'm being ridiculous.
"Nah, man, sorry."
My normal response when people approach me with on the street asking for something. My opinion on giving to people begging on the street isn't solidified, mind you, but that's where I generally am right now.
"I just need a ride to Buckhead. I'm not even sketchy."
During the day, he'd be right. He speaks plainly. I know that's no more than a 15-minute drive.
"I'm sorry man. I can't."
"That's okay; that's understandable."
He walks away. I rejected before honestly considering, I know. But I think about the situation more, about the myriad of bad endings taking the offer could have had. They involve guns, demands, lies, and me losing.
I finish filling up. As I drive away, I pass by him again while shuffling through a few other thoughts. Couldn't he call a taxi? Did he come from the strip joint? What stranded him here? Why is he standing away from the pumps by the tire inflators... in the rain?
As I drive away, I feel a sense of sorrow and sympathy for the man. I don't care to critique his approach. I want to help people when they're in need. But society prevented me from feeling comfortable doing that this time. Assuming he's a perfectly reasonable person who just got stuck somewhere, he stayed stuck for at least a bit longer through no fault of his own.
There was a distance between us too large for me to risk bridging because of the time, the place, and my general sense of safety in this area and the city. And for that, I truly feel sorry. I hope he's home now, safe. Like I am.
