You know those moments when you feel like you’re a complete asshole?
Yeah, me either.
But if I did, this was probably the closest I’ve been to that.
I was driving to a friend’s baby’s christening forty miles up the interstate. It’s been quite some time since I’ve been to church, and I’m pretty sure the Catholics have forgotten about me (mostly because I’ve forgotten how to be Catholic. Oops). Nonetheless, I woke up at 7am — on a Sunday — to make sure I had time to pick up a card, some food, and get gas before I head up.
I was already a little pissed for being awake in time for the early bird specials at IHOP because the day before I also woke up at the asscrack of dawn when the birds are freaking out in the trees and shitting on my car to go see my sister who lives an hour and a half away.
I didn’t go to my usual gas station because I would’ve had to double-back after my stop at Target to get a card for the christening which took entirely took long, because despite the fact that this heavily religious town being made up of 768,948 (I’m probably lying about that number) Mexicans and Italians and other nationalities that listen to the Pope, there were like six choices, most of which were for godchildren and little boys, shoved in a corner next to an ENTIRE SECTION of cards in Spanish. Yo habla Español (cuanto estoy baracha), pero mi amiga es Filipino, y no habla Español, y la nena no habla idioma porque ella es un nena. Lo siento por el Español malo. Trato de demostrar un punto.
So I went to another gas station that’s right off the interstate that requires an exit and a creepy hold-your-breath pass under the interstate through a tunnel to the other side. When leaving the gas station that exists entirely on its own, there’s a single stop sign. And as I’m driving past the stop sign that I’ll inevitably have to pass, there’s a man standing there holding a cardboard sign, talking to the car that’s leaving.
Here’s where the asshole part comes in.
After I get gas and park for a second to paint my nails (steely gray, in case you were wondering), I go to leave, and read the man’s sign: “Stranded. Need gas. God bless.” I appreciate the rhetoric involved in asking complete strangers for money (perhaps I’ll write a paper about that. Dibs), but I always feel like an almost-asshole for ignoring them. You know, the whole avoiding-eye-contact thing.
But something about this guy made me decide to break my own rule (which is never a smart thing) and make eye contact. I mouth “I’m sorry I have no cash!” and he despondently drops his sign, lowering his head. If I could caricature it, it’d look exactly the same as Charlie Brown when Lucy pulls away the football.
I probably could’ve given him the orange juice I hadn’t had to drink yet, but I never know if that’d be insulting. My cousin once bought a sandwich for a man standing on the corner asking for change and had it slapped out of his hand. Yes, I know, just because one homeless man asking for stuff was an asshole, doesn’t mean all of them are.
Which, really, is why I’m even writing about this. I feel like an asshole. I don’t like feeling like an asshole. I totally could’ve had time to stop and help this guy out, maybe go inside the gas station and get him some food with what little money I have in my bank account, but all the bullshit you hear about people being murderers and rapists and kidnappers and reptile aliens keeps me wary. If I rolled down the window, I couldn’t put up a fight.
I’m a woman after all, which makes me helpless. (snicker, snicker.)
In fact, I had so much time to have helped this man, that I wrote this entire blog on my laptop while sitting in the parking lot of the church I’m afraid to go in because I got here so damn early.
I hope the roof doesn’t collapse on my soulless body.
–AM.
P.S., as I was tagging this, I realized all of the relevant tags would probably bring in the wrong readers who would then judge and hate me. I think I should feel like more of an asshole.
avamaura 