The Monster Under Your Bed

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How very ironic that I woke this morning with the bicycle jingle from that stupid Free Credit Report.com commercial stuck in my head. And I can't get it out.

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I had a bit of a life experience today. It was a good experience, even if it was potentially idiotic in today's world of violence. As I type these recollections, I am typing them because they made an impression on me as being important. I do not know to what end, perhaps I am still learning those lessons.

~*~

My brain runs like an Amtrak station. Several tracks, multiple trains, and I am the dispatcher, checking codes, times, schedules, and making sure there aren't any trains on the same track. This enables today to happen.

We were going to lunch with the end result being to take Demon to work. All 3 of us were together this afternoon, and we were rushing through our day. Demon and TMF were rushing to that time on the other side of work, and I was rushing through my day off, with no clear plan of attack.

We stopped at a gas station in the neighborhood, I needed money for lunch. Demon told me that this particular ATM wouldn't take our cards. So, frustrated and pushed for time, I pulled out, intending on hitting the ATM in the town where we were going to eat.

Introduce a moment of Amtrak clarity. I noticed, as I was maneuvering to get us onto the freeway a man standing at another gas station across the street. A large man. A black man. At his feet a large blue duffel bag. He had a sign. I drove on, one of my tracks wondering what situation had gotten this man to this position, standing on a hot street corner in Wichita Falls, with a sign and all his worldly possessions in a blue bag.

But, as often happens, such thoughts are temporary as other needs take precedence in the brain. We ate, we hopped back in the car, and we headed to drop Demon off at work. As we were flying up I44 I noticed a man on the opposite side of the freeway, thumb out, looking for a ride. My brain again began to wonder what path of fate would bring someone to stand on the side of the road in this heat. I felt the cool breeze of my car's AC and thanked the powers that be that I was not in the same situation, forced to be moving somewhere, and without many options of how to get there.

I lightly pondered, as we drove, that I would stop, on the way back. I would stop and offer that man a ride. At least to the north side of Wichita Falls. All of maybe 16 miles in his journey, not much maybe, in the long run, but I wanted to share what kindness I could. After all, I didn't see a chainsaw, and I had my husband in the car with me, even though there might be one of *those* discussions at a later time about my judgment skills or lack there of.

As we drove back, I looked for the man. I scanned the road for a long time, until I was certain we had passed the point that he could have walked, in the time we'd been separated. He was no where to be seen. I hoped that he had stopped in Burkburnett and had gotten a drink. I hoped he was sitting in the What-a-burger or the Braums and was enjoying the cool air for a little while. I hoped someone else had taken the same track my mind had decided on and offered him a ride. If only for a little while.

We flew back into Wichita, TMF gathered his things, and he left for work. I settled in for some LJ reading, some TV watching, and pondering of what I was going to do with the rest of my afternoon.

Around 5PM or so I decided to go across town to the fabric store. Figured I'd hit the bead store and the book store as well. I gathered my things and headed out. I hopped onto the freeway, not the most direct route, but the fastest for all that it takes me a little bit out of my way. I was singing along with Heather Alexander and driving too fast for a construction zone when I saw him.

The man from earlier in the day. The man with the blue bag.

I recognized him immediately. Less than 30 seconds of my life and he made an impression that lasted at 70MPH. He was walking south on the freeway, same way I was traveling. And in a split second, we were separated again. Only this time, my mind wouldn't stop. There was no switching tracks on this one. I thought of how hot it was outside. How hot he had to be, walking along that ribbon of black asphalt. Cars passing, one after the other, raising a breeze filled with dust and exhaust fumes.

My brain was in full out war.

I didn't have to stop. There was nothing requiring me to stop.

Except common human decency.

Which was likely to get me killed and left in a ditch, after all, the bag was big enough to hide a chainsaw in. And we were lacking that aspect of safety since the husband was securely at work.

Chainsaw or no, it was too damned hot outside to be walking on the freeway. And I wouldn't take him far. Just to the LOVE'S gas station at the edge of town, or maybe the bus station, a few blocks away.

Decision made, I circled around. Silently still arguing about how much of an imposition this was, I wasn't just stopping, I had to get back on the freeway and circle around to the next underpass to meet up with him again.

Don't ask me how I ignored that inner voice, but I did. I got back on the freeway and stayed in the right lane. I slowed down when I saw him and pulled up behind him. He never turned around. I crept closer, afraid to honk at him, this was a very busy freeway, and I didn't want to have to explain to the police why I scared a man walking into oncoming traffic. I wondered how I was going to get his attention when he suddenly looked back and saw me. I waved him over, rolling down the window. He set his bags down and came to the window.

"Need a lift? I asked

He just looked at me.

I tried again, "Do you need a ride?"

Again, a blank stare.

Now I began to worry. So I asked "Do you speak English?", wondering how *I* managed to find the only non-English speaking black man in all of Texas.

At that point he gave me a look that I really can't describe properly and practically yelled "MC'DONALDS" at me.

That half swallowed yell did it for me. He's deaf, I realized. And all my past skill at sign language was gone, just like that. I gestured for him to get his bags, that I would take him to the closest McDonalds, just a few blocks away. He got his things, set them in the back seat. His duffel was heavy. When he put it in, I could feel it's weight hit the seat. I looked back and saw a faded name written in Sharpie marker.

To say we drove in silence would be moot. He never looked at me, but sat there, holding his bookbag. My mind suddenly was surged with thoughts. I thought of what TMF, Demon, and my friends would say about this. I wondered where this man had come from. I wondered, sadly a side effect of watching the news, if this could turn out to be one of those weirdly tragic and disturbing stories.

As you might be able to devise by this post, my head is still firmly attached to my neck. And whatever other thoughts that passed through my brain, brought on by too many episodes of COPS and CNN, never came to fruition.

I pulled into the parking lot. He got out, leaving the passenger side door open. He opened the back door and pulled out his bag. I watched quietly. Stephenson. I noticed his last name on the bag as he pulled it out.

He shut the door and leaned back in. He unfolded a bit of white posterboard. On it, in thick black marker was written

My name is Chris. I need $5 for my travel

I reached in my pocket, where I'd shoved the change from lunch. I had four crinkled dollar bills. I handed them to him, hoping he could read lips and apologized that it was all I had. He took the money. And then things got surreal.

He touched me.

He leaned across the passenger seat and before I knew what was happening, he was lightly stroking my right cheek with the backs of his fingers. Then he moved to the left and rubbed my face again.

I sat there. Stunned? Maybe. It's not everyday I have strange men rubbing my face like you'd stroke a kitten. But it felt....different.

He reached up and took off my sunglasses, folded them in his free hand, and again, looking me in the eyes, stroked my face. He cupped my chin with his thumb and fingers, ever so gently, and then stroked his fingers across my forehead.

Never once did he attempt any further verbal communication. Nor any sign. Just that set of touches.

When he was done, he handed me back my sunglasses. Pulled himself out of the car. Shut the door. And gathering his bags, he walked away.

I pulled out as he was entering the McDonald's. I hoped he was able to get something to eat maybe, with that measly $4 I gave him.

He was a large man. A black man. And I'm wondering where else Chris Stephenson is going on his travel.