Empathy. Fear. Inactivity.
Last night on the way home from band practice, I drove along East Michigan street on my way to Hwy 509. On the sidewalk to my right, I saw a fellow human in obvious distress. I’d guess he was in his 40s. Wearing tattered sweatpants and a t-shirt. Shoeless. Dirty. Disheveled. Dragging four plastic bags. Shambling down the sidewalk, mouth agape, sobbing loudly.
I passed him, then had to stop for a red light. He shuffled past me again, just ten feet away. He was lost in anguish. And alone in the cold rain. I had several seconds to consider whether – or how – to act. What could I possibly offer him? Sympathy? Money? My coat? I honestly would give those to help him. Would it help? Would it be safe to talk with him? Was he a deranged street person? Victim of a crime? Just a guy down on his luck who could have really used a hot meal?
Crap.
Paralyzed by fear. Not sure what to do. Good intentions. No actions.
My light turned green and I drove on. Ten minutes later I was home. Inside my cozy warm dry house.
Crap.
I feel the exact same way every time I get off of my exit from i5. It’s totally frustrating and eats at me long after the moment has passed. You know you can help, but you’re right…how? We need to get that Monster Garage car that made doughnuts in the back and just keep a hot batch going. That would surely save the day, every day.