Man In A Wheelchair

"Corn rows have companion feel
This rocky road and this steering wheel
Who do you call to ease your pain?
I hope for you to get through this rain"
 - "Windows Are Rolled Down", by Amos Lee


Ahead on the path, an old man in a wheelchair hit a rock and the whole chair tipped forward, depositing the man on the concrete. I pulled out my earbuds and slowed down my run as I approached him. A man on a bike also stopped and got off, our paths merging towards the wheelchair.

The man didn't seem to particularly want our help; still, as he collected himself and his belongings, the cyclist and I each took hold of the wheelchair and set it upright. It was so completely covered in belongings - bags, old jackets, a blanket, an umbrella - that at first, it was confusing to determine which side faced forward. As the cyclist and I held the chair still, the man sat on the sidewalk and began putting back the things which had fallen. Water bottles mostly, and a seat cushion which sat on top of a worn briefcase.
"This is likely his only home," I thought. "This is all he has."

The man's legs twisted helplessly, like those of a rag doll. His face was mostly hidden by a long salt-and-pepper beard, sun glasses, and an ancient hat. On his left wrist were two watches. Nearly everything he wore and which covered the wheelchair was black. So colorless as to almost blend in and not be noticed. Honestly, if he hadn't fallen, I wouldn't have given much notice. I've likely seen him before, along with many other homeless men sleeping and shuffling around the city.

I thought about how to help lift him back into his chair. If the cyclist and I each took hold of a shoulder and a leg and lifted him up together, I bet we could have done it. Yet even as the cyclist and I waited, the man finished arranging his belongings and waved us away.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said in Spanish, and the cyclist said okay and walked back to his bike. I slowly backed up, wanting to help more but not wanting to intrude, and knowing I likely couldn't lift the man on my own. So I resumed my run.

I had circled the park once more when I spotted him sitting under a tree in his chair. He simply sat there, alone with his meager possessions. How ironic, you could say, that while running 11 miles in training for a half marathon, I would meet a man without the use of his legs. I can take it all for granted so easily, so easily it's almost frightening at times. Things like health, a home, family and friends, regular meals, daily showers and changes of clothes, and even dignity. I'm embarrassed if I trip or stumble or say something I later regret. How is it for that man to know that everyday people see and pity him? Sheathed in black clothes and dark sunglasses, probably not many people stop and talk to him. Does he crave human interaction, yet loathe the moments when they come as a result of pity, like me and cyclist seeing him fall and trying to help?

Collisions with strangers; please, don't leave us the same.