Doing Good
by Martin Lindauer
Going to work
is not something I look forward to. I gotta get
up early, shower and shave fast, pick out a
different tie and shirt every day (I wear the
same brown suit, no problem there), make my own
breakfast, and race to make the 8:40 bus. This
morning, though, was different. It was the
anniversary of my mom’s passing away and I
was thinking of her up in Heaven looking down on
what I been up to.
Maybe
that’s why, a block from the bus stop, I
guided a blind man across the street, and on the
opposite side I calmed down a pedestrian
who’d been nearly clipped by a cab running
the light. The 41 Express, because ‘a my
dilly-dallying, pulled out without me, which was
alright, ‘cause I got a little sun on my
face while waiting for the next bus. When it came,
I helped a mom haul her stroller up the steps,
which loaded up the front, making me wait for the
local. I didn’t mind. Today was the day for
being a Good Samaritan.
The bus
dropped me off a block from my place and I gave a
buck to a homeless person hanging around the stop.
Grateful, he shook my hand. Half a block away I
carried an old lady’s grocery bag up her
stoop.
I gotta’
admit that doing acts of charity felt good. Like
mom used to lecture me as a kid, “Do unto
others as you would have them do unto you.”
For this morning, at least, she wasn’t the
only saint in the family.
My supervisor,
though, didn’t subscribe to the Golden Rule.
”Where the hell ya been,” he snarled
from the door of his office as soon as I entered.
“You’re late. A big account called in a
few minutes ago and I had to give it to Charlie
who was here on time.” He muttered something
about the upcoming quarterly evaluation report
and the yearly bonus.
How late was I?
I looked at my watch. Hell! That crummy homeless
person musta’ lifted it when he shook my
hand. Hey, my cuff’s got somethin’ on
it. Christ! That stupid old lady’s grocery
bag musta’ leaked when I carried it up her
stoop. I spotted a dark stain on my trousers.
Damn! A tire on the unmarried teenager’s
stroller musta’ rubbed against it at the bus
stop. I sniffed an unfamiliar smell, lifted one
foot, and looked under my shoe. Shit! I probably
stepped into a pile when I helped the blind
geezer cross the street, or maybe when I cooled
down the dumb jay-walking pedestrian at the curb.
“Give me
a couple ‘a minutes to clean up,” I
told my boss. I ignored his sour look, hurried
into the bathroom, tore off a couple ‘a feet
of toweling, wet it, and started to clean myself
up. “Next time,” I warned myself,
“let the social workers do the good deeds.”
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