Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 27-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
What I learned on my summer vacation. Nice is manipulation.
The other night, I went down to the PetroCan to get Smartfood. There was a big fat guy sitting bug-eyed at the bus stop, bike leaning against the bench.
I ignored him as I walked by, but I could tell he was assessing me. I was on a commercial break from some TV show or another. I was in a hurry.
On my way back, passing the bus shelter, the bug-eyed guy with the bike said something, and I stopped. It was dusk: a cool and cloudy evening. He was maybe 30, 35. I didn’t hear what he said, so I took a step toward him, saying, “Pardon me?”
“I hope the next bus driver will help me. The last one wouldn’t call an ambulance for me.”
“Oh?” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“Low blood sugar. I feel dizzy.”
“The guy in the PetroCan will probably call for you,” I say.
“No, he won’t call.”
“Do you want me to go and ask him to call an ambulance for you? He knows me.”
“No,” he says. “He won’t call. The cops won’t call, either. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m diabetic.”
“How far do you live from here?” I ask.
“Just down the street,” he says.
“Do you think you could walk your bike there?” I ask, noticing that there is something wrong with the guy. Something other than low blood sugar.
“No,” he says. “I’m too dizzy.”
“I don’t know much about diabetes,” I say. “Do you want me to get you something to eat at the PetroCan?”
“No,” he says. “I just hope the next bus driver will call an ambulance for me. The cops in Richmond helped me last week, but Vancouver cops won’t help me.”
It’s starting to sound less about diabetes and more about who will and won’t help him.
“Maybe you should make a start for home before it gets dark,” I suggest. He reaches over to his bike and flips on a light mounted on the handlebars. If this guy stood up, he’d be over six feet tall, more than 300 pounds. I want to go. I want him to say, “Thanks for stopping. I’ll be OK.” If he’d let me help, then I could go, but really, he doesn’t want me to do anything. He wants attention, not a solution. I’ve offered several ways to deal with his problem. None of them is acceptable.
“Maybe the next bus driver will be more helpful than the last,” I say.
“I doubt it,” he says.
“Well, I hope it all works out for you,” I say, taking a step toward my building. He grunts and turns away. I’m just another asshole who will not help him. Yup, that’s me all right. Add me to the list of jerks. Offering to help a stranger in the street. Such a fucking jerk.
Walking back to my building I was thinking about the guys I’ve gone out with. The last guy wanted everything his way. I tried to comply. I thought if I did everything how he wanted it, he would appreciate me, maybe even love me. It doesn’t work that way. Not at all. The bug-eyed guy at the bus stop is how it works. I could have stood there for six months trying to help him, being nice, suggesting ways to solve his problem, empathizing, listening, but those aren’t the things he wanted. He wanted attention, and he wanted someone to blame. I wanted to solve his problem so I could feel good about myself for helping and so that things would be better. Better used to be a good thing until it became part of the problem. There’s a whole lot of disappointment involved in trying to make things better.
