I NEED HELP

Every Sunday morning I go running in my old neighborhood. It has a steep hill off the main road. Running up that hill,  suburban clutter soon gives way to open hillsides and pastures, some with sheep  or goats grazing, the occasional cow or horse, and even more rarely,  I see (or hear) a flock of wild turkeys that live up there. For me, the extremely casual jogger, the steepness of the hill provides a real test. I like to believe it builds character as well as physical strength.

Ha!

I hadn’t run the previous Sunday. I overslept or it was raining, something like that. I was determined to run the hill this morning—cold, foggy and dark as it was.

I’m about a hundred yards into my run, still on the main drag near town hall when I hear a voice.

“Help me! Help me, please!” A girl’s voice. I hesitate.

I see a dark figure down a side street. Nahh, it can’t be. I just watched some TV show about people being heroic in everyday situations.

I start to run again.

“Please! Help me!” The girl is frantically waving her arms, closer now.

I stop. “ What’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask. (Obviously not. Moron.)

“No, I’m not. I’m locked outta my house and I can’t get ahold of anyone.”

She’s crying, hysterical. A chubby young woman in her twenties. She’s got no coat and her top is sleeveless. She must be freezing. I’m wearing sweats, a wool beanie and gloves.

I rub her arm with my glove, trying to provide reassurance,  convey heat, signal that she’s safe. “It’s all right. You’re okay. You’re gonna be all right.”

“No”, she wails. “It’s not okay. I feel so stupid. I locked myself out of my house. I tried to break in through a window but I couldn’t. My cell phone is dead and I left my charger and my keys at a friend’s house. Now I can’t reach him.”

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” I rub her arm again. “You wanna hug?”

She nods.

I hug her quickly and let her go, a) not wanting her to think I’m a creep trying to take advantage of her and b) not wanting her to get any romantic notions about me.

“So what are you gonna do?” I ask.

“I’m just gonna go to the police station,” she says. The police station’s about thirty yards away.

“Well, I can walk you to the police station,” I say brightly. (Like I’m actually doing something.)

“Thank you”, she mumbles.

We cross the street.

“Of course, they’ll probably just arrest me.”

I stop. “Why? Why would they arrest you?”

“Because I’m drunk as hell.” She starts to cry again. I look at her, smelling the alcohol for the first time.  I hadn’t noticed she was drunk, only hysterical.

“Well, fuck that. Let’s not go that way, then,” I tell her. “My car’s parked down at the intersection. My phone’s in my car. You can call someone to help you.”

“Thank you.”  We turn around and go about five steps before she starts crying again.

“ All these people  I thought were my friends. They’re not my friends.”

“Yeah, trust can be hard to find,” I reply. “ People who like to party may not be the most…”

“That’s just it, though. I never go out,” Drunk Girl says. “Why did I go out tonight? Why?!” (My car seems very far away now, although it’s actually just another fifty yards down the street.) ‘‘I’m so stupid. Why did I lock myself out? Why did I think these people are friends?”

“ Hey, anybody can lock themselves out,” I tell her. “I’ve done it. And as for friends…if I locked myself outta my house, I doubt any of ‘em would come help me. Not in the middle of the night, anyway.”

We get to my car. I hand her my phone.

“Is it a smart phone?”

“No, it’s a dumb phone.”

“Well, I need a smart phone because all my contact numbers are online.”

“Well, shit -”. I feel stymied. She’s still in a jam, crying and freezing cold. “ Let’s get in the car anyway, get you outta the cold.”

I clear out the front passenger seat for her, throwing a plastic bag of CDs, a paperback book, and a magazine in the back seat.

“You like music? I could put on Otis Redding.” (That’s what’s in my CD player.)

“Otis Redding,” she sniffs. (A little disdainfully, I thought, for a drunken hysterical stranger sitting in my car.)

I don’t put it on. Otis Redding is obviously way too old school to her. I seriously doubt she would like the other CDs I have in the car any better: the Allman Brothers, Otis Rush, R.E.M., Joy Division. No. ( Plus, God forbid, she actually likes Otis Redding. I don’t want some heartbroken drunk girl sitting in my car to start feeling romantic. Jesus, what was I thinking?)

‘Well, we can’t just sit here all night. I can’t do that do that to you.”

“Let me call a coffee shop I know,” I tell her. “ Get some hot food in you. You’ll feel better.”

I call. No one picks up.  The restaurant is closed. We’re screwed. Then it dawns on me.

“Maybe Starbucks is open. You wanna go there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs.

I drive us over to the shopping center.( Oh, please be open, oh hated chain coffee shop.)

Starbucks glows with light in the early morning fog. (Thank you, Jesus.)

I buy her a cup of coffee. She asks the barista if she has a laptop she can use to look up her contact numbers.

“No,” the barista tells her. “But you can borrow my smartphone.”

As Drunk Girl takes the phone from her, she nods over her shoulder at me. “I don’t even know this guy.”  The statement is a little more open-ended than I would like. “I don’t even know this guy” could mean “I just slept with this dude and I want to get away from him” or “This creep has been following me. I need to call for help.”

The barista looks at me. I try to look trustworthy. My expression is supposed to say I am not smiling but I am a good person. Honestly.

The drunk girl hands the phone back to the girl behind the counter. She borrows my phone and while I wander away from her to give her privacy.

As I bask in the soft, easy-listening stylings of Starbucks-approved soft rock, Drunk Girl makes two phone calls that start plaintive and quickly go downhill. “Help me, I’m locked out of my house. I’m really drunk…well, thanks a lot.  I really need help, thanks for being a friend.” Click. And once more. Click.

She hands me my phone and bursting into tears, she runs outside and sits down on the curb.

I follow her out there. “C’mon, wouldn’t you rather be inside? It’s freezing out here.”

She shakes her head. “I’m too embarrassed.”

“C’mon, who cares? Fuck what other people think. C’mon.” ( I say this for myself as much as for her. I’m cold.)

“Okay.” She follows me inside and we take the table by the door . “Now what are we gonna do? We can’t sit here all night.”

“The restaurant’s gonna be open in twenty minutes,”  I tell her. “We’ll get something to eat and maybe you can reach someone by then.”

“Yeah, okay, hot food sounds good.” Then she shakes her head.“ I just can’t believe I thought these people were my friends. I feel so stupid.” She drops her head on the table and  starts crying again.

Now a string of Starbucks regulars begin to make their way in. Three separate bearded guys in ball caps and a woman in her workout clothes, sweaty and out of breath.

Each one of them takes in the scene. The girl with her head on the table, sobbing so hard her shoulders are shaking. And me—sitting there impassively, facing the door. Each person has the same expression of disgust as they look at what is obviously Mr. Heartless Dickhead and the heartbroken girl he’s just dumped in the early hours of Sunday morning.

(On top of the mental lynching I’m getting here, I’m beginning to seriously reconsider taking her to the restaurant. I’m a regular there. I bring this girl in there and people are gonna wonder about me. Just like these Starbuck assholes here.)

Drunk Girl finally looks up, cried out for the moment. “ Can I borrow your phone again?”

I hand it over to her.

She continues, “ I just want text my friend to tell him what a piece of shit I think he is.”  (What a great use of my phone. Send angry text messages on it to random strangers.  Perfect.)

Drunk Girl texts for a while and stops. “ How do I hit ‘send’ ?”

“Huh? Just hit where it says ‘send’, “ I tell her.

“Here,” she says, handing the phone . “Show me.”

I look at the screen. “How’d you get onto my contact numbers?” (I’m horrified to see the icons of my nine closest friends and relatives on the screen, imagining them getting some wildly abusive text sent from my phone.)

“I don’t know. Let me try again.”

Idiotically, I hand her the phone back. She goes back to typing a really long text before giving up.

“it’s not working.” Drunk Girl goes to hand me my phone but drops it on the table with a crash. The protective cover and the back of the phone pop off. “Oh, my God, I am so sorry.” ( I hate this girl now.)

I struggle to re-assemble my phone. She hands me the battery.  It’s not working. ( My phone! Broken. Do I have go to see the shitheads at the cellphone store later? Do I need a new phone? Jesus. I hate her.)

“Why don’t you drive me back to my house and I’ll see if I can break in?” Drunk Girl suggests.

“Yes, let’s do that,” I say agreeably. (I can’t get you outta my life soon enough, Phone Destroyer.)

As we drive, she makes small talk and tells me her name. I play along. (Get out of my life. Now.)

Thankfully, Drunk Girl lives less than a mile away. I wind my car up and around an apartment complex parking lot on the side of the hill.

“Park here,” she says. I park in front of small one-story apartment building. She gets out and goes up to the two front windows and starts pulling the screens off them, testing to see if she can get inside. (I don’t know this girl. Is this really her apartment? Maybe its the guy she’s mad at, maybe its his place? Maybe she’s a nut. Her friends all hang up on her. She has no friends…)  Drunk Girl goes around the back of the building. (What if someone calls the cops? What if she’s stalking some dude? Am I some kind of accomplice? My phone!)

The front door opens and she emerges with a big smile. (Halle-fuckin-lujah.)

“I had to totally break down my back door but I got in.”

“Cool,” I say, by way of congratulations.

“You’ve been so nice to me, let me just give you my number,” Drunk Girl offers.

“That’s not necessary. Besides my phone’s not working at the moment, anyway, “ I say, grinning a little tightly. (My poor phone!)

“Then I’ll get your number then”, she smiles. “I just need something to write with.”

As Drunk Girl goes inside, I call after her.” It’s really okay. Forget it.”

I sit there for about ten seconds. ( I don’t want this girl calling me. Ever. )

I put the car in reverse and drive the hell out of there.

When I got home, I screwed around with my phone and the battery until it worked again.(Thank God.)

Am I a bad person? Was I wrong? Tell me.  I try to be good. Really.