This past weekend Laura and I went out for our “big walkies.” I’ve noticed a disturbing phenomenon (other than mid-May weather in early November): When you have a pet, all household speech patterns converge toward pet language. So, we embarked on our “big walkies.”
I like transporting myself with my legs and I like seeing all the different people out and about. It makes me feel like a blood cell in the circulatory system of a giant. As we walked, there was in my field of vision twenty yards ahead of us a man. I would not have remembered seeing him except that while he was in focus, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Something else came out of his pocket with the phone and plopped to the ground.
I’ve seen people litter before. Sometimes they’re really brazen, just flinging their detritus into the air, daring someone to say something. One time I watched a guy do that with an empty soda bottle right in front of me. I threw my arms in the air while giving him an incredulous look. He sneered at me and said, “The fuck you gonna do about it, bitch?” I picked up the bottle and tossed it in the bin that was mere feet from where he’d flung it (he had not been aiming for it). Then I walked away and he said, “That’s right, bitch!”
Other times the litterbugs will accidentally-on-purpose drop their garbage on the ground, pretending to not even have known the garbage was ever theirs. I almost respect the first guy more than these types. The first guy owns it, flaunts it, and is more likely to some day see the error of his ways and reform. I think the sneaky litterbugs will probably live out their lives cloaked in the idea that they’re getting away with it.
If our man was littering, then he was a very slick version indeed of the second type. But the thing that fell from his pocket did not seem like trash. It fell to the ground with a tragic weight, like Mufasa into the gorge. I quickened my pace to investigate while there was still time. A wave of delight washed over me when I saw what had fallen: this was no dead Lion King, but something I could still save. It was the man’s maroon passport, issued by the great nation of Portugal.
I showed it to Laura. “Oof,” she said. As in, ‘Nice save.’ I felt like I was back in improv class (which didn’t go well). There were so many ways I could play this, but my brain only gave me static. Looking back, here were some of my options:
I could keep the passport, alter my appearance, and begin a new life in Portugal. But I like my life here.
Open it to learn his name, run up and act like I am his long lost best friend. The only phrase I know in Portuguese is one I picked up in the first restaurant I worked at: “Deixar comer sua bunda.” This means: “Let me eat your ass.” I thought this would be a bit forward.
I could tail him and wait to see how long it would take for him to realize what he’d lost. I could let the terror wash over him, ask him what’s wrong, and offer to help find his passport for a fee.
A lot of things could have happened. But here’s what did happen: I jogged up to him and tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, sir.” He looked at me, wondering who was tapping him. I said, “I’m about to make your day a lot better.”
His look said, ‘I am confused, feel a little put upon, but am nonetheless curious to know what sort of hijinks you’re about to pull, and I can’t help but suspect you’re going to ask me to sign up for something, but you look like someone who has a pretty easy time navigating this life so I’d be surprised if you had to resort to skulduggery to get by.’ Before he could put this thought into words, I showed him the passport.
His face flushed with reverberating waves of relief and gratitude as the that-woulda-been-a-huge-pain of it all sank in. “Thank you…oh man, thank you!” We hugged and continued on our respective big walkies.
I think if I hadn’t been there, the passport would have made its way back to him. But it would have likely involved another benevolent stranger and the Portuguese embassy. I’ve absentmindedly misplaced or left behind things of value and as far as I can recall, they’ve always made their way back to me.
I think the city is more like a place where things come back to you than it is a place where things are lost forever. It was nice to help make it that way.
Not only are you super, but you are indeed a hero
Maybe not a hero but a decent human being!