bystander
03.15.05
Three summers ago, I was the happiest that I�d ever been in all my life and I was the fittest that I�d ever been in all my life.
I was working in north Lincoln with my brother and a couple friends as a grounds keeping crew for some rich people. We spent our days watering, planting, digging, scooping, raking, and cutting; all while talking, laughing, complaining, or being silent.
I did not have a car, and only had access to one if I told my parents that I would need one�and if my brother was not needing a car at the same time. Nearly everyday I rode my bike to work and back, cursing the long hills in the morning and praising them on the way home. Some days I felt as though I were very close to keeping pace with the cars, but there were also days when I felt as though I were fighting a losing battle with exhaust. Everyday, however, riding was a joy because I was riding the special bike that I had saved up my meager earnings in order to buy. Lightweight and fast, she was my red, environmentally-friendly chariot.
When I wasn�t working, I went to summer-class and I rowed. My friend Sarah and I had decided that with a little more training, she and I would be ready to race a double at the Head of the Charles in Boston that fall. So we trained and trained. I ate a high-calorie diet and tried to gain more muscle mass, while Sarah tried to get leaner. Sarah had a little success, and I had even less. My work and transportation methods caused me to use whatever calories I ate and left me nothing to bulk up with�no matter how much peanut butter I ate. Despite our lack of success, we enjoyed the challenges of training and fantasized about our dream of competition [in the end, we were not selected to compete, but went to Boston to see the race anyway].
Socially, things were good as well. I had made friends with an interesting, active group of foreign engineering students and often joined them in their activities. A good friend was living in the apartment next to mine, enabling us to cook together, eat diner together, and chat frequently. My twin brother was also in town quite often and evidently was not so ashamed of me that he wouldn�t invite me to some of his friends� parties.
Of all the good that I experienced that summer, there is a single event that really made my summer fantastic.
It was getting towards the end and Nebraska�s summer was at it�s hottest. These were my favorite days to work because my body had to make no efforts whatsoever in order to heat itself, and no matter how chilled I felt from the morning dew, I knew that in the matter of just an hour or two, the chill would be gone.
One day, I was riding home from work and despite being probably the dirtiest I�d been all summer [we�d been transplanting pot after pot of a clump-grass into a newly-developed part of the landscape, and I was coated with a visible layer of dust and sweat], I was in excellent spirits and making great time as I flew home on my red steed.
I was beginning the last challenge that I would face that day, the climbing of the 27th St. viaduct, when I something at the top began to come into view. As I was mashing on the pedals in my best impersonation of Lance Armstrong, and squinting to get the sweat drops away from my eyes, a baby stroller�complete with baby seated inside�came into view.
A few more heaves on the pedals of my bike, and a body lying face-up on the hot concrete came into view from behind the baby carriage.
Immediately, I dismounted and knelt by the body. I had learned a lot of first-aid as a high-school student and while working with my school�s athletic trainer, and had continued to learn more at university as I had volunteered as a dormitory health-aid and faithfully attended the health-aid classes. I was sure that I could help this woman.
When I talked to her and touched her, she gradually stirred. She was small, and old, and I don�t know if she ever understood me�she was Asian and I know that I did not understand at all whatever utterance it was that she was barely able to let out with her breath.
After raising her head slightly, she passed out again. I looked up the street and down the street and there was not a sole approaching on bicycle or on foot. I didn�t have a cell phone but needed to call 911. I had to leave the woman and find a telephone.
Call me stupid, but I decided to leave my bike and book-bag with the woman and take off in search of a phone on foot. I thought that the objects would indicate to anyone that happened along while I was gone, that someone had been there and was trying to help.
I ran back down the viaduct thinking about how dismal my phone-finding prospects looked. There�s a fairly dead business district north of the viaduct, but it was more promising than the south side, which only has a park.
Never feeling slower in my life, I came to the first white, concrete block building. First, I saw that there was a pickup in the parking lot. Then, I saw two fluorescent light tubes through a window, so, I ran in. It must have been strange for them to see a college girl in dirt-caked tennis-shoes, dirty tank top and gym shorts, bicycle helmet and gloves asking to use their phone, but the men behind the counter [two lawn-sprinkler installers I later learned] obliged me.
In a calm, slow voice [I didn�t want to have to say things twice, or worse, be told to �relax�, �slow down�, or any number of other equally annoying commands] I told the operator who, what, when, and where, hung up, and ran right back out the door�after saying �thank you.�
As if the descent had seemed slow enough, the ascent of the viaduct felt as if I were trying to run through knee-high mud. I cursed at myself for being so stupid as to have left my bike at the top.
While I was away telephoning, a couple had arrived at the scene. They were just standing there, straddling their bicycles, staring. They were taking up space, blocking my way, and breathing oxygen that I�m sure an urchin could have put to better use.
I went to the woman, roused her, then kept her calm, while explaining to the two bystanders what I had found and done up until their arrival. They just kept standing and staring.
To my relief, I began to hear sirens and soon a fire truck appeared. I told the firemen what I had found and then stood aside, wanting to be of help but at the same time not wanting to be in the way. The bystanders evidently had slightly similar feelings, so rode away.
Up until the fire truck�s arrival, the baby had been quietly sitting in her stroller evidently enjoying the view and sunny weather. The sirens changed all of that and she began to wail and cry.
One of the firemen saw this as an opportunity to put me to use. I was given the baby and told that I could sit in the rear of the fire truck�s cab where it was shaded and a little cooler.
There�s hardly a maternal bone in my body, and I think that the baby knew it. I was totally unable to calm her and make her comfortable. I tried to show her all the fascinating things I could find in the back of the truck cab; helmets, flashlights, reflective tape, shiny seat-belt buckles� Nothing interested her and there was nothing I could do to make her happy or at least, less-angry.
The ambulance had come and was ready to depart. I was relieved of the baby and was thanked for my help. Still full of excitement, I rode home. There were feelings of disappointment in that I had not been able to calm the little girl, but there were greater feelings of satisfaction in that I had been given the chance to truly help someone in need and I had done my best to be of assistance.
I felt as though I had some visible, glowing aura of goodness surrounding me. For days and weeks afterwards, recalling that day gave me joy and peace.
Even now, 3 years later and in Japan, it makes me happy to recall that day. It reminds me that I am not useless and that I am able to act when called on. It reminds me that I am a good person with common sense.
I still live without a car, and truly appreciate Japan�s railways�despite the fact that I own a bicycle. I find it stimulating to catch trains, master the timetables, and read the route diagrams. I enjoy the variety of people that I see, the thought that maybe of all those people, I may meet someone new, and the thought that maybe of all those people, I may meet someone I know. I enjoy finding my way through a new station, and even a familiar station.
When I get off the train at Tarui, I�m happy to be home and to breath in the fresh air that blows down from the nearby mountains, but I�m also a little disappointed. I�m disappointed because most likely I have gone on my outing and returned having had nothing extraordinary happen to me.
I walk through the ticket gate hoping to meet someone waiting at the benches or at the ticket machines. If there�s nobody there, then I desperately hope for something to happen during the time in which it takes me to walk the remaining stretch of breezeway and descend the wide stairs to the exit, because I know that as soon as I reach the exit, I�m on my own again and nothing exceptional is likely to happen.
I take back all those wishes for excitement, because something happened the other night that made me feel terrible.
When I was halfway up the platform stairs, an orange haired body with a flash of purple came barging through the crowd headed in the opposite direction. I presumed that they were late for their train and desperately trying to make it before the doors snapped shut. I didn�t think much of it, but it did seem strange because in Tarui, nobody runs for a train.
At the ticket gates, there was standing an ugly chubby guy with long, permed, orange hair remarking about the guy who was missing his train.
As I walked through the breezeway, a skinny orange haired guy ran by staying close to the wall and keeping his face turned towards the wall.
When I reached the stairs that descend to the exit, there were more people than usual. I wondered, was it raining heavily outside and people wanted to wait for their rides inside? I cursed that I hadn�t brought my umbrella with me.
A few more steps and I saw the body lying at the foot of the stairs.
He was on his back, with his arms out, one grasping and umbrella and the other a backpack. He was wearing a black coat and t-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. His legs were crossed at the ankles as though he�d be spun around. His face was battered and bloodied, and if alive, he was definitely unconscious.
There was a woman crouched near his head, stroking his hair, but showing no emotion.
The other train passengers and I had formed a silent, loose circle about the pair. The orange haired young man who had been running along the wall was standing near the couple, and presently, crouched down. The woman said something and the young man took off his coat and layed it on the body.
The chubby guy from the ticket gates was making his way down the stairs. About 4 steps from the bottom he stopped and said something over the crowd and then smirked.
I know first aid, and I have a will to help others. However, in this situation, I was useless. I couldn�t understand anything around me. I couldn�t understand what the people were saying or why they were behaving as they were.
I was truly useless and was it was very clear to me.
I heard sirens, which told me that help was going to arrive soon. Soon I would be even more useless than I was at that moment. I slipped out of the back of the crowd�trying not to attract attention to my uselessness�got my bicycle from the rack, and gloomily rode home.
During the ride, I puzzled over the scenes again and again and grew more and more unhappy. Not even recalling my happy viaduct memory could make me feel better. It�s as if the new experience cancelled-out the old.
00:53
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