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The Half-Assed Samaritan
“He’s missing a leg, and he needs a ride to the Chelsea Hospital,” my wife said on the phone. She was at her church.
“Okay… (sigh)… Give me his number.” He lived on Division St by the stadium, and I was around the corner at Meijer, picking up groceries at noon on Sunday.
After a quick phone call, I drove to J’s house. He came out the front door on aluminum crutches and made his way with ease down the steps and over to my little Geo in the driveway. His left leg was missing, the blue jeans knotted off on that side where his knee would have been. He lost the leg to cancer I learned on the 45 minute trip north to Chelsea.
He chatted most of the way in a stream of consciousness fashion. He said his doctor told him to go to the Chelsea ER to get pain meds for his leg. He’d called churches all through town looking for a ride.
Being an introvert, the more he talked the more I retreated into the safety of silence.... READ MORE.
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