At first, I was simply a curious onlooker. Or maybe I was intruding on his life. I was soon to become a participant in a parade of two. I was going only as far as the bookstore on the next avenue and up the block so I easily could have passed him by, but I did not want to lose sight of him, thinking I could help. But could I really?
It was hot and humid. On an August afternoon. Pedestrians went about their business. On the street, cars stalled and then sped up as they were directed accordingly by the traffic lights. And I walked behind him as he traipsed the mid-Manhattan commercial street. At one point, he stumbled but regained his footing.
The weight of the two cumbersome shopping bags seemed a burden greater than what he could easily handle. Every step brought on more anguish but also more determination to keep on going. How could he manage? As I pondered his plight, I looked at the lettering on the side of one of the packages. It was a delivery from a restaurant in the area. Most likely food for a corporate lunch meeting.
Suddenly, he dropped to the sidewalk as he placed the bags on the ground. I was standing a few feet behind him where he had genuflected. After a few minutes, the man arose, picked up his packages, and continued his journey. I watched his struggle up the street and quickened my step. “I need to help,” I thought. I did not know how I would help him. I just knew that I did. He need not bear his distress alone. When I was alongside him, I asked, “Sir. “Can I help you carry the bags?”
“No,” came his response.
I stood there and felt in my handbag for a tissue and watched his figure as it continued its march onward.
