An Anecdotal Life

The Lost Art of Kindness

         Recently, I became the victim of a terrible tragedy. Alone, in the dark, lying on a slab of unrelenting concrete with a broken foot, I watched a woman who had witnessed the entire event drive away. I was a victim of apathy.

         This was not my first run-in with a person of such low moral standards, oh no. No, my first encounter was early last year. It all began with a taillight.

         I had just pulled out of the parking lot of a restaurant where I'd been having lunch with my aunt, Debbie, when she called my cell phone. My left brake light wasn't working, she told me, much to my great displeasure. I had just gotten my car paid off and I was sure that it was a sign of times to come.

         In my infinite wisdom, I decided that the temporary fix was to drive about with my lights on all the time so that if a policeman was behind me, he wouldn't notice. It never occurred to me that a car speeding around with its headlights on in the middle of the day would probably attract more attention than a broken brake light. I'm a writer, a lover of the arts, not a great mechanical thinker. Or, I suppose, a great logician, come to that.

         At any rate, I was passing a car parts store a few weeks later when the motivation to buy a replacement light struck me. I pulled in, proudly purchased my light, and told the clerk that no, I didn't need any help, I could do it myself. It was a light bulb, for God's sake; how hard could it be?

         Two weeks later, the light bulb was still in the trunk of my car (where I'd stored it so I wouldn't forget to install it) and I was still running about warning only the people on my right side that I would be coming to a stop soon. It wasn't that I'd forgotten about it, it was just that when I did think about it, I was already in my car doing about sixty miles per hour. It wouldn't do to change a brake light at any such speed.

         Finally, I got to thinking about the light bulb when I was sitting around campus one day with nothing better to do than wait for work to start. No better time than the present to fix things, I decided, and off I went. I got to my car, examined the problem, and decided instantly that whoever designs Mazdas should be hung by their toenails. At least whoever designs their lighting system should be.

         It took four sets of screws, two trips up and down the hill borrowing tools, and a broken piece of probably vitally important plastic for me to figure out how to get the damn bulb dealie to pop out so I could unscrew it. Once I did get it out, I realized how easy it would have been had I done it the correct way, and felt much more charitable toward engineers in general.

         Getting the light bulb out and replacing it, however, were two vastly different things. In order to hold the hard plastic flap out of the way so that I could access the light bulb, I had to put one foot in my trunk and hold it with my leg. Precariously balanced on the other leg, I used one hand to hold the socket thing in place and the other to try and maneuver the new light bulb in. It was not as easy as it sounds.

         Around about this time, with me half submerged in my trunk and inventing new four-letter words, a man in a Jeep pulled up and stopped directly behind my car. I'd seen him before in a couple classes but didn't recall his name. It didn't matter; he was there to help me and I loved him.

         "Hi, I..." The words trailed off as I watched him alight from his vehicle and walk away. Well, that was odd. I lifted my head above the lip of my trunk to watch his progress.

         There, about twenty feet away, a turtle was crossing the road. My savior went to the little bugger, picked him safely up, and brought him back to deposit him onto the passenger seat of the Jeep. I blinked stupidly, listening to him croon to the animal.

         "Yes, there we are. We'll take you to the wetlands now, so you'll be safe! Poor thing, you could have gotten killed..." Et cetera, ad nauseum.

         And then he drove away, completely ignoring the woman with random limbs sticking at odd angles out of the trunk of her car.

         As triumphant as I felt when I finally climbed out, working bulb and all four sets of screws back in place, it was nothing compared to the bewilderment and frustration toward the boy who'd saved the turtle. I was all about wildlife preservation, but really.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

         Last week was the latest incident. As a student at the university, I'm only allowed to work twenty hours per week. I had completed my twenty hours early that Thursday and was headed to my car when I noticed a great commotion around the building next to mine.

         Red and blue lights flashed blindingly off at least six police cars. A friend of mine, whom I call "Boston" for his point of origin, is a campus cop and was standing nearby.

         "What the hell's going on?" I asked, watching a fire truck roll past.

         "Gas leak," he said succinctly. Boston is not a man of many words. He's also rather fidgety, but that's another story.

         "Right." I looked away from the melee, back toward my building. "Should the polling group be evacuated?"

         "Oh, no. No big deal. We evacuated the Chemistry Building"--which is what was leaking gas, by the way--"but that's it. Should be fine."

         "Hmm." I nodded and went on my way. The pollsters and my fellow supervisors were aware of the issues; several of them had come back from their evening smoke-break telling stories of how the police wouldn't let them get to their cars. No reason to cause them any further alarm, so I headed down the hill to my own vehicle.

         As is my usual custom, I pulled out my cell phone and called my boyfriend as I walked through the dark to my car. If I'm going to get mugged, at least someone will know and be able to call for help in the event that I cannot.

         "Hey, hon. Yeah, I'm leaving work early; I've already completed all my hours...hey, you're not going to believe this, but there's a gas leak at the Chemistry Building...no, I'm not--AAAAAAARGH!!"

         It was at precisely that moment that my foot slipped on the newly mulched hillside and I collapsed into a heap in the parking lot with a sharp SNAP! for effect. My foot, I knew instantly, had broken.

         I picked my phone back up after a moment to try to tell Mike what had happened, but it decided not to work. I've come to the conclusion that cell phones are evil and sadistic beings carrying out the work of the Devil. They never work when you want them to, and always ring at the most inopportune moments.

         Unable to call for help, I took a deep breath and assessed the situation. There was a platoon of policemen up at the top of the hill, but over the din of the firetrucks and their own ruckus, they couldn't hear me. All right, Plan B.

         There had been a woman getting into her car when I fell. She was still sitting there in the parking lot, directly next to the empty space where I'd fallen. I lifted my hand to wave her attention toward me, but nothing happened. I blinked, frowning, and tried again. Again, nothing happened.

         And then her engine started.

         That wretch was going to leave me lying there in the parking lot like a giant pile of road kill! She calmly pulled out, put her car into drive, and toodled off with nary a backward glance.

         She definitely made it onto the list with the turtle guy.

         I did eventually make it to my car on my own (by a rather inventive method of hopping on my good foot and dragging my bad one behind me), but that really isn't the point. The point is that twice now I have been in a position of obvious distress, and twice I have been ignored. People are bloody rude.

         Not to worry. I am on a personal crusade to bring back the lost art of kindness. The next time I see Turtle Boy or the girl in the car, I'll simply kick their asses and prevent anyone else from falling prey to their apathy.