Push the Wheelchair. Get a Pickle.

This beautiful and sunny morning I was asked by a man in a wheelchair to please help him across the street. The man’s tone was not pleasant. It was somewhat demanding and aggressive, but underscored with frustration and desperation. The answer was obviously yes, but it took a second to figure out what to do with the bagel, coffee, and bags that were occupying my hands.

As I started pushing, he started telling me exactly how to handle the wheelchair. My first reaction was “Umm…. I know how to push a wheelchair.” Turns out, I don’t. The only times I have pushed a wheelchair were on after school moments in my dad’s office when I would push (actually shove) my brother and let the wheelchair wobble down the hallway until, by law of physics, something would stop it- most likely a wall or him falling to the floor. Other than this tweenage giggle-fest, I have never been in a position to push a wheelchair. So I quickly snapped out of my mental snippiness and carefully pushed him to the corner. I could feel this man’s weight on the chair and I could instantly feel his burden in my heart.

He let out a sigh and said, “Someone was helping me and then left me here in the sun. He said he wasn’t crossing that way and then he did.” His face glistened in sweat and sadness. My heart crumpled. “My name’s Tony. What’s yours?” “Will.” The light changed and he continued giving me instructions (I gratefully obliged) on how to get him up the ramp without tripping over and then to the corner where he wanted me to park him…I mean station him…I mean place him: in front of the deli, next to the Marlboro sign. As I was ready to leave, he asked me a last favor. “Can you go in there and get me a pickle?” “Excuse me?” “A pickle, can you get me a pickle?” The aggressive yet desperate tone was back.

Now, you’ve gottta understand something about me and pickles. I don’t like pickles. I have no sensibility for pickles. I don’t get why there needs to be pickles in my cheeseburger or next to sandwiches at diners. I usually don’t make a fuss about them, but I bring this up because we are generally more compassionate towards needs that we know and can identify with. If this man needed bacon, coffee, or wine, I wouldn’t have had to ask twice and just delivered. But pickles?!! Anyway…I get him his pickle, he gives me a last instruction. “See that bag behind me? Put the pickle in there.” I do. “That’s a turkey and cheese sandwich and now (pause) I have the pickle.” All the sadness, frustration and desperation in his face morphs into an impish Cheshire cat smile and he says. “Now I need to work somebody else for the soda.” (giggle) EXCUSE ME?! Did he just blatantly tell me that he “worked” me for his pickle? I tried to get mad but couldn’t. Although I felt used, the feeling of helping and giving to someone else, regardless of what I thought about his ‘need’ was far greater. Besides, next time I need to help someone in a wheelchair, it won’t be my first time.

This is Tony…And That’s What’s Going On.