The Good Person

                We heard the wailing even before the bus had come to a complete stop. The other passengers heard it too and we all watched the front door with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

The door opened and a young fellow stumbled aboard. Roughly 20 years of age, he was sobbing and shaken but somehow managed to produce a bus pass. The driver quickly glanced at it, then stared stonily ahead. My fellow riders and I looked everywhere but at the young man. His high pitched keening cries continued as he stumbled down the aisle. Finally, he took a seat. 

I’d seen him on the bus before, though never in this state. I believe today’s politically correct term for his condition is “mentally challenged”. Under normal circumstances you’d barely notice him. He usually gets on the bus, takes a seat and spends his journey smiling at everyone. Every now and then he may quietly talk to himself, but you’d never pick up on it if you weren’t listening. Today was obviously different.

As his crying continued unabated, I glanced nervously in his direction. To my dismay I realized he was searching desperately from face to face, seeking any available source of comfort. I knew I couldn’t allow this to go on and because everyone else was riveted on their newspapers or staring out their windows, I found myself calling out to him in a voice much louder than I’d intended. “Hey pal! What’s wrong?”

With tears streaming down his face, he eventually focused on me. His voice rose a full octave as he exclaimed, “I’VE HAD A VERY BAD DAY! I’VE HAD A VERY BAD WEEK! I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON WITH ME ANYWAYS!”

I quickly moved to a seat directly across from him. “You don’t have to yell anymore. I’m right here. Just tell me what’s happened.”

I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose loudly. “THIS GIRL AT WORK, SHE CALLED ME STUPID!”

“Okay,” I pleaded. “Tell me exactly what happened but please, lower your voice. You’re scaring everyone.”

We both glanced around the bus and noticed almost everyone watching us intently. Even the driver glanced back at us every now and again through his rear view mirror.

“Well,” the boy sniffled, “I made a mistake where I work and she got really, really mad at me. She yelled, got all red and worst thing of all, she said I was stupid! I HATE that!”

When I asked where he worked, he responded with the name of a downtown recycling company. Our conversation continued. 

“And you know the worst part?” he asked. “Except for bosses nearly everyone who works there is like me. Even this girl is! We’re all sort of stupid but a good person doesn’t say that to another person, and I’m a good person!”

“Well, it certainly seems that way”, I responded. “It’s Friday. Do you two have the weekend off?” When he nodded I continued, “I’ll tell you what. Just relax this weekend and think hard about all your friends at work. I’m sure just about everyone there likes you, right?” Again he nodded, this time with obvious enthusiasm. “When you go back to work on Monday, walk right up to that girl and tell her that not only are you a good person, so is she.”

He appeared puzzled for a moment then he said, “I’ll do it and you know why? Because most of the time she is a good person! Maybe she had a bad day too.”

“Yes, or even a bad week, like you,” I smiled. He grinned back at me.

Just then a thought struck me. While my initial intention had been to quell a disturbance, the result was much more profound, for me at least. I had witnessed another person’s despair quietly evolve into acceptance and finally to a self-realization that few could ever comprehend. I’d encountered a truly dignified man in a time when such people seemed to have attained endangered species status. His ability to have faith in himself despite personal adversity was an attribute I could only dream of acquiring.

At that moment the bus arrived at our terminal. As we disembarked I asked my new friend if he was feeling better. 

“Yes I am,” he replied. “Do you have any candy?”

As luck would have it, I had a brand new roll of Lifesavers and I handed them to him immediately. “Keep the roll,” I said. “You deserve them.”

He carefully unwrapped the package and popped one into his mouth. He thanked me and as he walked away I heard him murmur, “I am…a good person."

Innocence Lost 

                                 On a recent Sunday afternoon I had occasion to drive through my old neighbourhood. The circumstances that brought me there are unimportant but the crisp air and bight sunshine was more than enough to lead me down an old side road and slow my vehicle to a crawl.

As I drove memories of my youth swept over me. I found myself picking out homes of old friends, wondering if they lived there now and how their lives had turned out.

My elementary school was still there, though it looked considerably less foreboding than I remembered. On this day it seemed ordinary and small, but I recalled a time when I couldn’t imagine setting foot in a building as large!

I remember walking to school, taking care to stay on the west side of the sidewalk, as the east side was the realm of the older boys. There were no written rules per se but once school started, you were soon informed that the east side was inhabited by all-powerful masters of the universe and therefore, not your dominion. Unless you wanted your books and school papers strewn over a city block, you were careful to know your place. Of course one day you'd be old enough to patrol the east side and vengeance would be yours!

There was Mr. Harridin's house. Dark, mysterious and completely cloaked in a shroud of huge evergreens, everyone knew this was no ordinary house. Any man who stayed home all day, as Mr. Harridin did, and never came out except to retrieve his mail and glare at us had to be a spy! Which country the old scoundrel represented was unclear but we were consistently careful to maintain absolute silence when we passed. World War II had been over for 15 years but the Cold War was very much alive and it was our patriotic duty to ensure we didn't divulge any national secrets.

On my way out of the neighbourhood I turned the corner to the north end of my elementary school. To my surprise I came upon a scene that caused many cherished memories to flood over me. I quickly parked the car, got out, leaned against the trunk and watched the proceedings in amazement.

In the small lot between the community skating rink and the school there were roughly a dozen boys between the ages of 10 and 13. They were playing field hockey. Using splintered hockey sticks and a tattered tennis ball, they raced up and down the field, pausing only to argue and gesture dramatically or to rescue the ball from under a car. Their faces were scarlet with exertion and rage and while many wore NHL jerseys and new hockey gloves, quite a few resembled my old gang, sporting their older siblings or parents oversized gear, their ragged sweatshirts hanging to the patched knees of their jeans.

It always seemed odd to me how we’d picked that particular spot to play field hockey. There were plenty of other areas we could have used, many of them schematically appropriate and closer to our homes. Yet because this place was adjacent to the actual community rink, it made perfect sense for us to play there, and only there, but what amazed me on this day was that these kids had continued the tradition! I was certain they’d not been instructed to go there but somehow, they’d followed our logic. I found the notion simultaneously amazing and comforting.

After watching for a few minutes I noticed a woman in her early 30s striding purposefully toward me. Her crossed arms and the angry set of her jaw told me she was not about to exchange pleasantries. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

I blurted out my story about having lived here as a child and explained how I’d stopped to watch the kids play hockey, just as I’d played as a boy. Even while speaking the words, I felt an internal easiness.

“Look, my son’s one of those boys and I don’t know you from Adam. You’d better leave before I call the police.”

My initial reaction was extreme outrage. My first thought was to lash out at her with the same venomous disgust she’d shown me but of course, I didn’t. Instead I said nothing, got back into my car and slowly drove away. She watched me until I was out of sight.

As I left from those grand old memories I was overcome by sadness. It wasn’t so much that one can never go home. Time and it’s inherent lessons have taught me that lesson. It wasn’t even the woman with her angry eyes and fiercely protective manner. Given the circumstances of the moment and the social climate of the day, I empathized with her position. I didn’t blame her.

That evening I sat in my chair and contemplated the events of the day. I realized the hollow sensation that caused my throat to constrict and my eyes to mist did not concern a specific person or thing. Rather, I found myself grieving for an innocent time lost, likely to never to be regained.