I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

He trudged to the gas station with a container in hand. Dirty shirt. Dirty pants. Scuffed up beige boots. Clearly he was not dressed to be outside since it was about 5000 degrees, give or take. He spoke to the lady at the pump ahead of me. It was a quick conversation. She shook her head no. He turned and shuffled away.

I knew I was next, standing so near and still trying to dig out my credit card. He had a melodious but meek voice. His story involved something about a broken-down car and no money. The lady ahead kept scowling at us. She made me more nervous than any panhandler could. She agitated me.

Why the pissy face? What was a few bucks?

Maybe his story was totally bogus, although I can’t imagine what else he could want with the $4 of gas I gave him. I don’t care. I didn’t need a story. I wouldn’t like myself very much if he was stuck in this heat with no way to move.

Piss off, mystery lady with the scowl.

…

“Please help. No money. No food.”

Stories may not be true.

Doesn’t matter. What’s $1? $2? So I don’t get that soda today. I think I can carry on.

But there is always that moment of apprehension, of doubt, right before I toss logic to the wind.  I hate that.

Is it instinct? Is it common sense? Is it self-preservation? Is it listening more to the outside voices than to the inside ones?

Yes, it’s hard to trust anyone in today’s day and age. But I hate to continue in that vein.  Where’s the humanity?

…

Two roses.

A friend and I were in California, on Hwy 1 North, somewhere between Half-Moon Bay and Pacifica. We stopped at a small gas station to fill up for the long drive back. Soon, a huge line of cars grew behind us. At the lone gas pump ahead was a gray hatchback filled to capacity with knickknacks and home furnishings. A flea market on wheels.

Cars honked, and patrons stepped out to see what was the delay. The hatchback driver, a frazzled woman in a brown woolen shawl, simply waved at us wearily. In the car, our conversation switched from life’s puzzling transitions to the aggravation a few feet ahead. We honked as well.

When she finished at the pump, she walked over to our car and handed us two long-stemmed red roses. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve had a terrible day.” She walked back to her car and drove off.

The air felt like it had been sucked out of me. My face burned. Up until then I hadn’t even considered her circumstances. What if she had been evicted? What if she just escaped an abusive relationship?

The whole incident stayed on my mind for a few days.  Yes, she had been rude and inconsiderate.  But I may never have stopped to contemplate the reasons for her discourtesy if she hadn’t offered us the olive branch, so to speak.  If she had simply driven off, and I hadn’t glimpsed into her bad day, would I have been right in judging her?  What if she had just been evicted?  What if she was escaping an abusive relationship?

Is it right for my impatience to diminish her plight?  Or my compassion?

That’s easier to say than implement, I know. I get impatient a lot. But that’s my albatross – not anyone else’s – to deal with.

…

Then you get the other cases.

I was leaving the job, and the guy ahead of me was holding the door open. He had his face turned towards the outside. This was new to me, new enough to make me pause. Was there a fellow actually holding the door open? It’s not inconceivable, of course. But in a building full of harried office suits, I wasn’t often graced with this courtesy.

I walked through the doorway, and just as I turned around to thank him, he snapped, “So I’m just a doorman, is that it?” Apparently he was only surveilling the parking lot and not really holding the door open for me.

Jackass.

My smile disappeared. “Only if we’re using ‘man’ in the loosest sense of the word.” And then we stared at each other for a few moments.

I wanted to say more but I was at work. Restraint is a hard-fought lesson for me. Once I anger and open my mouth, it becomes an Andrew Dice Clay routine.

Make no mistake: I don’t need a guy to hold a door for me. But this guy was actually offended that I assumed he was a gentleman. Well, he certainly shot that designation out of the water.

As a mom of a little boy, I see these episodes and make a mental note. Thousands of mental notes…

…

One night not too long ago, I was at an overnight post office mailing out packages. An older man came in to check his box and then left while I battled with the automated postage machine. He came back in, and I paused.

What did he want? Why was he looking at me? Would I be a soundbyte on the news?

No. He asked me if I wanted him to wait with me. It was late night, and I was totally alone on a very remote road.

“I have two daughers,” he explained, noting the hesitation on my face. I quickly wiped my face clean.

Pissy lady with the scowl.  Neanderthal jackass. Enough already!

I accepted and thanked him.

That evening could’ve been a bad mistake. But I’d like to think there are still good people out there.

“People are out there doing bad things to each other. That’s because they’ve been dehumanised. It’s time to take the humanity back into the center of the ring and follow that for a time.” – Joe Strummer

Artist: Alexandra Lane