It was a sunny, mild November Saturday. I was on South Idlewild Street, stopped at the corner where it intersects Madison, waiting for traffic to clear so I could pull out and turn left. I was headed to Home Depot to get a couple of keys made and pick up some paper towels. A big day, no doubt.
Madison was busy, and I’d been idling there a bit before I noticed the man in the red jacket and khaki pants sitting on a low wall by the intersection. It appeared he was trying to pull himself upright using the nearby wrought-iron fence and was having no luck at it.
After watching for a moment, I lowered my window and said, “Do you need some help?”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
There was no one behind me, so I backed up a little, parked at the curb opposite from him, and crossed the quiet street. He had a stout wooden walking stick in his right hand, and I took his left hand in both of mine and pulled him to a standing position.
“I got to be careful. It’s my knee,” he said. “It gives out after a while and I have to sit down. But then, getting up can be a problem.”
“Where are you going?”
“Walgreens. I need to pick up my prescriptions.”
“Well, let me give you a ride.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
As we made the short drive to the pharmacy, he told me his name was John A ___ and spelled it out for me, and that he lived at St. Peter Manor, a few blocks away. He said he’d been to the doctor the day before and had been prescribed some new meds.
As I dropped him off at Walgreens, I said, “I’ve got to run to Home Depot but I’ll swing back by here in 20 minutes or so, and if you’re here I’ll take you home.”
“That’s kind of you. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
I got to Home Depot, went in, and grabbed a jumbo package of paper towels. They were on sale, stacked right by the front door. But when I got to the key-making machine, there was a line and it took a while. Afterward, I drove back to Walgreens and cruised the lot but saw no sign of Mr. A. On a hunch, I turned off of Union onto South Idlewild, and there he was, slowly limping along by the Goodwill store, not too far from where I’d picked him up earlier. I stopped next to him, lowered the passenger-side window, and said, “You want a lift, John?”
“Boy, I sure do,” he said. “Can you come around and open the door for me?”
“No problem. I got you.”
On the short trip back to St. Peter Manor, John asked me if I’d ever been inside the place. “It’s pretty nice,” he said.
I told him I had and that at one point several years ago, I’d looked into getting my mother a place there, but that she’d decided she wanted to stay in New Mexico, where one of my brothers lives.
“Oh, she’s smart. New Mexico is beautiful,” John said. “I remember the sun and the desert … and the mountains and sky. Everything is so big. I loved New Mexico. And I like the West a lot. Plenty of room to move around out there.”
“It really is beautiful,” I said.
“Well, thank you again for the ride,” John said, as we pulled up to his home base. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Glad to do it,” I said. And I was. I got out and went around to the passenger side and helped him get to a standing position.
“Hey,” he said. “Let me give you my phone number, in case you want to get ahold of me.” So he told me his seven digits (I assumed the “901” was a given), and I entered them into my phone as he headed toward the glass doors of St. Peter Manor.
I don’t know that I’ll call him, but I texted him my number, and you never know. We didn’t get into how or why John lived out West, but I suspect he might have some good stories. Meanwhile, happy Thanksgiving, y’all. Count your blessings.
