Lend a Hand

The city’s river of people forever moves between its concrete banks. Depending on the time it may ebb or surge but the flow is continuous. Anonymous among that motion a young man makes his way, his thoughts already at his destination, his surroundings a blending of sound. The people around him have their own goals and as he moves within their pace he is just a piece of the same river. So complete has he become part of the flow that the single voice he suddenly hears surprises him. Cutting through the white noise of the city, a call halts his movement, pulls him out of the stream.

"Hey Buddy can you lend me a hand?"

The voice comes from an old man sitting alone on the stairs of a decrepit hotel. The shuffling of feet past the building’s door, slowly erode its worth, much like its occupants who dwell within its walls. It is this old man’s voice, this hotel’s voice that has fished him from the river. Stopping, the young man is no longer part of the flow but has become an obstruction. The people stream around him awkwardly. Conscious of this he makes his way across the current to the old man.

The old man is as shabby as the building on which steps he sits. Looking up at the young man making his way towards him he says,

"Can you lend me a hand?"

Everything the old man wears is ripped or worn thin. From torn sneakers to threadbare work pants to the stained baseball cap containing wisps of gray hair. A stubble-encrusted face breaks into a smile exposing gaps where teeth once sat.

"Thought I’d be here all morning ‘fore somebody give me a hand."

The voice is as rough as the old man’s appearance. Too many cigarettes, too much drinking, living just too long. Against the fall morning the old man is wearing an undershirt and over that a quilted sports vest, stained in places, torn in others.

"Just give me a hand down to that cement bench."

The old drunk waves his thin arm in a general direction. Several years ago the city placed concrete benches along the streets, some thought in beautifying the surroundings. It didn’t; the benches only collected the detritus of the city, people like this old man. Also on the hotel steps leans a single crutch. Noting the glance at the crutch the old man mutters,

"Lost the other a couple of months back, left it some damn place."

A sudden cough erupts from the old man. With his arms he holds himself until the coughing stops and then spits on the steps between his feet. The cough brings tears to his eyes and through his blurry vision he again asks the young man.

"So you gonna help or what? Just take a couple of minutes."

The young man doesn’t want to help; would prefer to keep on going. No one would say anything should he walk away ignoring the old man’s entreaty. But he has stopped, had been pulled out of the river. Not wanting to remember the old man being left behind he offers his hand and says, "Sure".

The years have eroded the old man so that he is light enough to be carried. But instead he wraps his arm around the young man’s shoulders. Together they seek their balance and then carefully step away from the stairs. Using the single crutch for additional support the old man presses himself tightly against his Samaritan. Moving slowly against the flow of the sidewalk they keep close to the wall of the hotel. Only when they get in the way are they noticed and then with eyes averted the people just step aside. The old man’s grip is surprisingly strong.

"Can’t tell you how much I ‘preciate this. Been days that I just been left sitting on those

damn steps."

The young man doesn’t want to make conversation; he only wants to deposit his cargo at the nearest bench.

"Not many people give a damn ‘bout us that’s for sure."

As he speaks and with each shift of movement the old man’s smell grows stronger. A sour smell of age and neglect. It is a smell that clings much like the old man is clinging, a smell that will be difficult to get rid of. The young man fights the urge to drop his companion, to continue on his way. He tries to quicken the pace but finds that he is dragging the old man and has to slow down.

Moving along the edge of the sidewalk, not interfering with the flow they slowly make their way. The young man regrets his decision with each step. By now he’d be at his desk surrounded by his things, well away from this grasping old man. Being a part of this old drunk's life, even for a moment, sickens the young man.

"How far is it?"

"End of the street, just around the corner."

At the rate they are walking that seems miles away. The young man keeps his eyes focused ahead, concentrating on getting to the bench and then leaving as quickly as possible. His companion however is continually shifting, turning to look at those that walk past them and is always talking. He doesn’t ask any questions, probably knowing that they wouldn’t be answered. Instead he talks of his past, the jobs he held, the people he knew. Though he might as well have said nothing for the young man doesn’t care. The bench is the destination and that is all.

It isn’t very far into their walk that the young man begins to tire. Originally the man he supports had weighed almost nothing but now he feels heavier. A great weight is pressing down around his shoulders and encircling his chest. A few drops of perspiration have formed along his forehead and the young man’s legs begin to feel thick and heavy. He goes to the gym on a regular basis and hasn’t had a cold or the flue lately, so this sudden tiredness is a mystery to him. The young man looks at the stubbled face next to his and wonders if the old man has somehow drugged him. That seems unlikely if not impossible. The old man hasn’t given anything to him and he doubts that the old drunk has anything communicable. The sooner he can dump the old man at his bench the better.

By the time they reach the end of the street and are about to turn the corner the young man finds himself completely out of breath. They pause while he struggles for air. The young man is confused and suddenly frightened. A shift has happened. He no longer carries the old man he is now being carried.

"Come on Son what’s the matter?"

The young man can’t answer; he is trying to catch his breath.

"I think you’ve got a little bit of juice left in ya."

With strength that hadn’t been apparent the old man begins to drag his Samaritan along the street. Just ahead of them sits the bench but the young man doesn’t see it, his vision has begun to blur.

"Really thought I’d get ya a little further than this."

Around his shoulders the old man’s arm feels like a vice, there is no way he could break free.

"There’s just nothing to you young guys these days."

The young man’s thoughts are not on freedom, he is now struggling to just stay alive. His breathing is labored; his legs no longer support him. In a matter of moments he has become a shell. If the old man squeezed any harder he would crack open revealing nothing inside.

Dimly he feels the old man letting him go and he falls into a heap onto the bench. Calling out for help is impossible, he is dying. All he has strength for is a final question, a single word. Faintly the young man asks,

"Why?"

He feels the old man’s gaze on him.

"You stopped." comes the answer.

The bench no longer holds him. As he falls he can hear the old man’s gravely voice asking.

"Hey buddy can you get me away from this drunk?"

The sentence is repeated again and again. The old man has gone back to fishing.

Email: Victor Zorman

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