I had just stepped out of Subway after picking up a sandwich for my mother when he started to shout for me.
“Hey man!” and “Yo! Hey!” filled the air, statements that I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring because of where I live. Generally when people shout these things at me, they want you to loan them a cigarette or buy them beer or, on most occasions, give them money. So for the first twenty steps — thirty, maybe, I wasn’t counting — I ignored him. The shouts started to get louder, which I attributed to him getting closer, so I finally looked up.
“Yeah?”
He asked if he could use my phone.
Immediately my mind started to flood with thoughts of what was going to happen if I gave him my phone. Maybe he would stab me and run away with it, or perhaps he would bash me in the face with his hand full of heavy metal rings and leave me bleeding in the parking lot while he drove away with both my car and my phone. For some reason I could only think of the worst outcomes, and not the fact that — maybe — he just wanted to use my phone.
After recovering from my momentary panic, he finally made his way over to me and told me his story.
He was supposed to be meeting his brother out here to help him with a car detailing job (“Oh great,” I thought, “He’s going to hand me a business card.”), but had been waiting here for a half hour after his brother had failed to show up. The reason he wanted to use my phone was so that he could call his brother and find out where he was.
“You can put it on speakerphone, man, I don’t even need to touch it.”
I thought about it, and proceeded to pull out my phone before he said “I’ll even pay you man, how much ya’ want?”
This admittedly scary looking man, sweating profusely, was offering me money to use my phone. He removed a wad of cash from his jeans and started to unfurl his bills. Tens, twenties, fifties and — Jesus, did I see a Benjamin in there? — ultimately I refused his money. “It’s a phone call, man, don’t worry about it.” I told him, handing him my iPhone.
I don’t know why I went from fearing that the man would stab me in broad daylight to trusting him with an electronic that, admittedly, I treat better than I would my own child. Was it the cash? Was the offer of money a reason to entrust a man with my most prized possession? Was it his openness? Or maybe my trust sprouted from fear, as if to say “Oh man I better give him my phone before he kills me.”
I don’t know why, but I’m glad I did.
He called his brother, and discovered that he was in the wrong place. You see, this man was not from around here — he was from Tennessee, actually — and was just here to help make a few bucks with his brother. After hanging up, he handed the phone back to me and thanked me over and over again. “God bless, dude, you’re a great man, have a great day!” he kept saying in different iterations as he shook my hand.
He went his way, I went mine. I’m glad I could help, but I feel a sense of shame for thinking the way I did.
The People Watcher 