“Enjoyyour walk!” she called with a genuine smile.
TheWalking Man meekly raised his good hand in a sad wave as he pulled his bodydown the street in the other direction.
Therewas an elderly woman waiting at the bus stop as well. She patted the nurse onher thigh and told her, “You’re a saint, working with those poor people!”
Thenurse smiled. “I especially have a soft spot for him. Such a tragedy!”
Myears pricked up and I stretched towards the back of the bus stop to eavesdrop.
“Howso?” the old woman asked.
“Hewasn’t born like that,” the nurse explained. “Traumatic brain injury. He wasout jogging in the rain one day and a drunk hydroplaned and jumped the curb.His leg got caught underneath the car.”
“No!”the old woman gasped.
“Ittook four surgeries to save it. But nothing could save his mind — he gotdragged along for a block and a half, his head bouncing the whole way like abasketball!”
“So… so those burns …?”
Thenurse nodded. “They’re ‘road rash.’ Pavement scars.”
“DearGod!” the old woman exclaimed. “That poor child!”
“Youget used to working with the disabled,” the nurse explained, “but him? It’sjust so, so sad. He lives for his afternoon walks; says he enjoys thembecause they remind him of who he used to be. That’s why we use them as hisreward. When he takes his meds and finishes his P.T. every day, he gets to goout walking.”
Icouldn’t bring myself to listen anymore, so I finished my stretching and shotoff in the opposite direction of The Walking Man.
Ittook me a solid half-mile to realize why I had bolted so suddenly — I waswracked with guilt. Everything I had assumed about The Walking Man had beenwrong. He wasn’t born like that, with a gimpy leg and an even more gimpy brain.And the burns I’d always figured were the remnants of an uncontrollable act ofself-harm were a horrific reminder of the hell through which he’d literallybeen dragged.
Mostof all, I felt guilty because I’d been right — there, but for the grace of God,went I. Not from some freak genetic crapshoot, but from pure, dumb,unfathomable, tragic luck. I can’t tell you how many miles I’ve logged over theyears running these very streets; on any given day, that drunk who jumped thecurb could’ve jumped into me.
Whichwas when I decided to stop being such a piece of shit to The Walking Man. Therewould be no more looking away, no more avoiding those glances that scared me somuch. On that day, I made a solemn vow to myself that I’d wave or smile or nodwhenever I saw him. I knew he was capable of reciprocating since I’d seen himwave to the nurse, so once we’d established that level of comfort I’d startsaying, “Hello!” as I passed. I wouldn’t push him and I’d take it slowly. It’snot like I envisioned us becoming friends and going out for coffee, but I wasdetermined to treat him like a person instead of some feral animal. After all,this was his neighborhood, too.
Myplans may have been good and pure, but The Walking Man seemed to want no partof them.
Itwas only a few days later that I found myself barreling towards him as hedragged his way up the street, shouting and gesturing at God-knows-what as hedid. He was in front of the little Mexican bar and restaurant that always hadreally good chips and salsa, but really mediocre everything else. Unabashedly,I focused my eyes on his like lasers and smiled the biggest, most sincere smileI could fashion.
TheWalking Man stopped in his tracks and stared straight through me, dumbfounded,as I ran by.
Undaunted,I decided to up the ante the next time I saw him, which again was only a matterof days. Every so often, when I feel like mixing things up and running a fewsprints, I’ll hit my old high school for a couple of laps around the track (infact, I’m there often enough that the track team doesn’t pay me any mind as Ilap their best runners). I was just leaving one afternoon, crossing the lotwhere they park all the school buses for the night, when I spotted him. He wasa block down and shuffling up the other side of the street, so I darted acrossa crosswalk and bee-lined toward him. He stopped and stared when he saw meapproaching. Good! I thought. Progress! This time I not onlysmiled, but flared my eyebrows and nodded three times.
Still,no response. The Walking Man gazed through me with a slack jaw, as if it wereunbelievable to him that someone would show him a bit of kindness.
SoI upped my ante again and changed my normal running route to essentially looparound and around his block. Since I knew he walked every afternoon, I figuredI’d have more chances to interact with him the more time I spent close to thegroup home. I was right, because I caught him two blocks up the very next dayat the front steps of the public library (right by the weird street sculpturethe city commissioned from a local artist years ago that never made any sensein front of a library). This time I threw it all at him at once — thebroad smile, the nods, and the flared eyebrows. I even waved, a subtletwo-finger-salute that undeniably conveyed acknowledgment and goodwill.
Again,The Walking Man did nothing. He just stopped and stared at me with what I wouldswear was incredulity.
Aboutfive steps past where he’d planted himself, I looked over my shoulder to seehis empty, perplexed stare had followed me up the street. Although I realizenow that I was reaching and seeing what I wanted to see, I honestly thoughtthat might have been a positive sign.
Then,the next time I saw him, I almost ran into him.
Idon’t know why I wasn’t thinking more about him that day; I guess I was justzoned out and focused on my run. Still, I was on my new route around his block,and without realizing it I almost steamrolled the poor guy. I had my head downand he had just left
