Good Samaritan

Tonight there was a young man in a wheelchair outside one of the doors leading into the building I live in. He was reaching down to the ground, trying to pick up something, and I saw that he had dropped some money and his ID. When I first saw him, I thought mainly of getting past him and into the building with my bike. We’re not supposed to let people into the building who don’t have a key. Then I stopped to help him.

He said he couldn’t find his key to get in, and he thought maybe he had lost it in the cab. I asked what he was going to do. He mostly shook his head and glumly said, I don’t know. He’d been out drinking a bit and must have taken a taxi home. I told him I could let him in, but he still wouldn’t be able to get into his apartment.

Do you live with anyone?
No, he shook his head.
Is there anyone you can call?
No.

I let him into the building lobby and then put my bike away in the garage. When I walked into the building he was leaned over again, partly out of his chair, picking up money. He was holding a hat in his lap containing his wallet, cigarettes and other things you might normally carry in your pockets. He had been rummaging through the assorted items, looking for his keys. I picked up the money, gave it to him, and then walked over to the office door and read the notice about the emergency maintenance number and what to do in case of lockouts:

The management is not responsible for lockouts and it is not considered an emergency. Locked out parties are responsible for calling a locksmith who may assist them.

I told him what it said, asked if he wanted me to help him call a locksmith. He said no. I asked if he wanted me to call anyone. He said no. I asked if he wanted me to just leave him there.

Yes.
All right man, have a good night.

I got into the elevator thinking over different scenarios, judging how I’d handled the situation, what other people would have done. I kept picturing an overly concerned woman who would call him honey and would dig through all of his stuff trying to help him find his keys. She would refuse to just leave him alone and would insist on helping him call a friend, a locksmith or do something.

When I left him, he seemed a little despondent. I thought leaving was the appropriate, respectful thing to do. I didn’t really treat him any differently than I would anyone else because he was in a wheelchair. I think that woman in my head would have only made him feel worse. So I left him alone to either figure his shit out or wallow in self-pity, as he pleases.