Chester

So, at about 2:30 this morning, I was standing in the parking lot at work, appraising a very low right front tire on my car. I’ve been having odd experiences lately along these lines – tires just suddenly showing up next-to-flat after being just fine when I last saw them mere hours ago. Anyway, I was trying – with, it must be said, a great degree of futility – to pump air back into the thing for the trip home when someone said “Excuse me, sir,” right behind me, which, in a not-at-all well-lit parking lot at 2:30am, has a tendency to make one jump three feet out of one’s skin, which I then proceeded to do.

Once I was resituated (and reskinned), I saw the African-American man standing behind me with a knapsack that had seen better days. He told me his name was Chester, and he needed a ride to the Motel 6, which is halfway across Fort Smith, which I was preparing to at least attempt to leave (in the opposite direction, no less). I was just a little bit skeptical, because I could smell that he’d been drinking. For some reason he then showed me his driver’s license – an Arkansas driver’s license with a New Orleans address. Things became somewhat clearer.

I was worried about the tire – this would be an extra 10 or so miles’ round trip that it would have to endure before hitting the interstate for half an hour to take me home. All things considered, it wasn’t going to have enough air in it either way. If I couldn’t make it home, I could call my wife (who would naturally be overjoyed at having to get out of bed to come rescue me), or I could call a co-worker or two (same scenario, only I don’t have to live with them), or worst case scenario, I could hoof it back to the station and spend the night there. If I didn’t help this man, he’d be walking for an hour, and he’d be walking right past the mall, in whose parking lot the police congregate at night. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with our police, but a lone black man with alcohol on his breath, on foot…I didn’t give him good odds on reaching Motel 6 instead of the drunk tank.

I thought the air in my tire was better spent on this man than on me, so off to Motel 6 we went. It was quite a lively conversation, about how the government actually had been taking care of him but he didn’t have transportation back to his room from a friend’s house (some friend, I thought silently), and how much he likes this area. And how much he wants to go home, even though he understands full well that the geographical location he knows as home bears little resemblance to what he remembers as “home.”

We drove past the mall parking lot, where there were something like half a dozen cop cars gathered in close proximity. I’d make a crack about our tax dollars being hard at work, but the mall parking lot is a fairly central location to all points of the city – unlike the downtown police station.

Finally, I dropped Chester off, gave him half of what was left of the pizza I had delivered to me at work tonight, wished him the best of luck and told him to keep the faith. I don’t think anyone’s ever thanked me that much for five miles’ worth of driving. I could’ve felt pleased with myself, but I also know that Chester’s just one man. And I’m quite sure most people wouldn’t have taken well to how he and I were introduced – 2:30 in the morning, surprised by a man you’ve never met before. (And hey, feel absolutely free to tell me I’m nuts for giving a ride to a total stranger – who had been drinking, no less – at 2:30 in the morning. I’ll admit that this may be at least partially a result of that so-called southern hospitality that people keep claiming we have down here.) There are a lot of Chesters (and Chesterettes) out there. Some of them, I’m sure, have children, spouses, and no way to get from point A to point B.

I could feel proud of myself for helping, but it was just one guy. There are so many more like him, in the same predicament. A lot of them are here – Arkansas took in more evacuees from the Gulf Coast than any state other than Texas. As their “temporary” displacement has become rather more permanent, I’ve heard stories of the novelty of charity wearing off, and some residents feeling that the displaced have outstayed their welcome. Decreased media coverage doesn’t mean that the crisis is over – if anything, when people relax their guard like that and we stop actively helping one another, that is in fact when the crisis begins in earnest.

There’s so many of them out there. And only one of me. And at some point I have to stop letting that drive me absolutely crazy and direct that energy toward doing something about it.

For what it’s worth, whether you want to ascribe it to karma, good luck, the grace of God, or the power of vulcanized rubber, my tire got me home just fine. And I can’t help but wonder how Chester’s going to get from point A to point B tomorrow.