I was on my daily walk along Myrtle Beach. It was nearly deserted as the sun had abandoned the sky in favor of imposing storm clouds and wind. I noticed a young woman standing in the pounding surf. The waves would vary her exposure from knee deep to above her waist. It probably would not have seemed odd but she was fully clothed and not in any normal beach attire. She looked like she would have been more appropriately dressed for an office than wading. She was facing towards Portugal and even though water was splashing and the wind was howling, it was obvious she was crying.
My inclination was to walk on. Through the years I have developed immunity to women’s tears and a proclivity to not get involved in the problems of others. But there was desperation in this person that seemed imminent. So I walked to the edge of the water, within earshot, but not close enough to be threatening to her. I spoke softly but loud enough to be heard above the combers “are you all right.” She didn’t hear me or chose not to respond. The latter was the more likely. So, being the stubborn person that I am, I spoke a bit louder, using my command voice, “HEY, ARE YOU OK?’ A bit louder than I had planned, this made her body spasm, and immediately look back at me, probably fearing that an attack was forthcoming.
When she realized that I was not moving towards her, she replied unconvincingly, “yes, I’m all right, thank you.”
Her tortured face and tensely fisted hands told me that she was a bad liar and she was far from all right. “You don’t look all right,” I insisted, now engaged.
Her sobbing increased (I can have that affect) and between sniffles she shouted, “Leave me alone, I am going to end it! My life is over!”
But as she spoke, she staggered back towards the shore if only a few inches. I took this as an opening. “What could be so bad that you want to drown yourself?”
“I have nothing to live for.”
“Well, I don’t know you but surely things can’t be that bad.” I got as close to the water as I dared without my new Reebok walking shoes getting wet.
“My husband left me for another woman.”
“That is not worth killing yourself over. Sounds like he wasn’t a prize, anyway. Maybe you are better off without him.”
“He emptied our accounts and took everything.”
“That is just stuff, you can replace that.”
“I lost my job. She was my boss.”
“You can get another job.”
“They foreclosed on my house. I am homeless.”
“Lots of people are experiencing that. They find the strength to go on. There is always hope.”
I noticed a minuscule change in her demeanor and as she turned to face me I realized that beneath the despair she was very beautiful. I urged her, “come on out of the water and lets talk about it. Things are never as bad as they seem.”
She held her ground (or water) but at least her need to commit watercide had been temporarily quelled. She was at least listening. I took the initiative to continue the conversation. “You are young, beautiful, and have at least one nice outfit. You can always start over.”
Though the sobbing had stopped, the tears were still washing her cheeks. “It is so hard. I don’t know what to do. I just want the pain to be over.”
“Well, do you have any family or friends you can stay with until you get on your feet?”
“No,” she said. “All my family live up north, in Boston.” I thought I had detected a New England accent. But at least I had her talking.
“Well, let’s think positive, what do you enjoy?”
“I love baseball,” she brightened. “I am a huge Red Sox fan.”
I cringed. She suddenly did not look quite so appealing, but I managed to continue. This was a chance to save a life, after all. I took the conversation back on task. “The first thing you need is a job. What kind of work do you do?”
Sadly, she stammered, “well, up until today I worked for the South Carolina Democratic Party.”
“You know, you might be right. Life can be a real bitch. If you walk about a hundred yards that way,” pointing south, “the riptides are much stronger.“ I continued my walk up the beach.
Showing posts with label Boston Red Sox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boston Red Sox. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Monday, February 23, 2009
Heads or Tails - "Case" - 2/23/09
This weeks Heads or Tails prompt is Case. I wrote the following true account of a suitcase I once owned:
In 1995, my sons were attending college in North Carolina and I was living in Wyoming. It was the summer before their senior year and I found a nice package deal that would allow us to attend baseball games at Yankee and Shea Stadium in New York and Fenway Park in Boston as well as a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. None of us had ever been to any of those venues. The package included all tickets, lodging, and transportation. All we had to do was get to New York City. They arranged their travel from Charlotte and I took care of the rest. A few days of father/son stuff.
Rick and Josh arrived in New York before I did and were waiting for me at my arrival gate at LaGuardia. You could actually do that prior to 9/11, walk right up to the gate. We hurried to baggage claim so we could start our New York adventure as soon as possible. After the normal delay, the bell rang, light glowed amber, and the conveyor belt began to roll. All the passengers from my flight began to circle the carousel, assuming their bags had actually accompanied them on the flight. Experienced travelers are always hopeful, tempered with doubt.
Bags appeared and began their slow journey down the conveyor and around the carousel. It was a packed flight, so there was a pretty good crowd. We had chosen a good position to acquire my bag and be on our way. Even though the baggage carousel appears to be creeping along, retrieving a bag is always done in a bit of a panic.
Suddenly, amidst the assortment of bags, appeared a tube of toothpaste and a sock. Everyone chuckled. Then there were some other articles of clothing and toiletries making the rounds. More laughs and even I made a comment about the poor person whose personal items were on display. The second time around, I made a devastating realization. I recognized one of my shirts. Had I been wealthy, I would have left the airport immediately and just purchased new everything. But had I been well-to-do, I probably would not be the owner of a suitcase that had been patched with assorted colors of duct tape. Though I had traveled extensively in my 20 years in the Air Force, Bataan Death March participants carried nicer luggage than I did. And now everyone on American Airlines Flight 2397 and their friends and family were aware of that fact.
I had no option other than to begin reclamation of my belongings. Eventually, my bag also appeared, gaping open and nearly empty. From the passage of the first items, both my sons had distanced themselves from me, pretending not to know me, so I was pretty much on my own as I scurried about on this sad salvage mission, like a contestant in some sort of white trash game show. When I had recovered most of my property (not too interested in reobtaining the toothbrush), I found that the latch was mortally wounded and the case would never close again. So, we left the airport with me holding the case in my arms like the dead soldier that it was.
The deluxe package billeted us in a four-star hotel in Manhattan, which added to my humiliation, as we were forced into the services of a bellhop. Taking one look at the state of my suitcase, the bellman correctly assumed tips were going to be meager. While for many New York tourists, bellhops and cab drivers are a source of drugs and prostitutes, I employed them to obtain some duct tape and twine, which In Midtown Manhattan are much harder to score.
In 1995, my sons were attending college in North Carolina and I was living in Wyoming. It was the summer before their senior year and I found a nice package deal that would allow us to attend baseball games at Yankee and Shea Stadium in New York and Fenway Park in Boston as well as a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. None of us had ever been to any of those venues. The package included all tickets, lodging, and transportation. All we had to do was get to New York City. They arranged their travel from Charlotte and I took care of the rest. A few days of father/son stuff.
Rick and Josh arrived in New York before I did and were waiting for me at my arrival gate at LaGuardia. You could actually do that prior to 9/11, walk right up to the gate. We hurried to baggage claim so we could start our New York adventure as soon as possible. After the normal delay, the bell rang, light glowed amber, and the conveyor belt began to roll. All the passengers from my flight began to circle the carousel, assuming their bags had actually accompanied them on the flight. Experienced travelers are always hopeful, tempered with doubt.
Bags appeared and began their slow journey down the conveyor and around the carousel. It was a packed flight, so there was a pretty good crowd. We had chosen a good position to acquire my bag and be on our way. Even though the baggage carousel appears to be creeping along, retrieving a bag is always done in a bit of a panic.
Suddenly, amidst the assortment of bags, appeared a tube of toothpaste and a sock. Everyone chuckled. Then there were some other articles of clothing and toiletries making the rounds. More laughs and even I made a comment about the poor person whose personal items were on display. The second time around, I made a devastating realization. I recognized one of my shirts. Had I been wealthy, I would have left the airport immediately and just purchased new everything. But had I been well-to-do, I probably would not be the owner of a suitcase that had been patched with assorted colors of duct tape. Though I had traveled extensively in my 20 years in the Air Force, Bataan Death March participants carried nicer luggage than I did. And now everyone on American Airlines Flight 2397 and their friends and family were aware of that fact.
I had no option other than to begin reclamation of my belongings. Eventually, my bag also appeared, gaping open and nearly empty. From the passage of the first items, both my sons had distanced themselves from me, pretending not to know me, so I was pretty much on my own as I scurried about on this sad salvage mission, like a contestant in some sort of white trash game show. When I had recovered most of my property (not too interested in reobtaining the toothbrush), I found that the latch was mortally wounded and the case would never close again. So, we left the airport with me holding the case in my arms like the dead soldier that it was.
The deluxe package billeted us in a four-star hotel in Manhattan, which added to my humiliation, as we were forced into the services of a bellhop. Taking one look at the state of my suitcase, the bellman correctly assumed tips were going to be meager. While for many New York tourists, bellhops and cab drivers are a source of drugs and prostitutes, I employed them to obtain some duct tape and twine, which In Midtown Manhattan are much harder to score.
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