How The Kindness of Two Strangers Restored My Faith in Humanity

I hate asking for help. It’s just part of who I am.

Maybe it’s a strong sense of self-reliance. Maybe it’s taking pride in the independence I worked so hard to regain after the accident which rendered me a quadriplegic. Maybe it’s not wanting to be in someone else’s debt.

Maybe it’s outright stubbornness.

Regardless, there are situations in which I have no choice but to accept the help of others.

And sometimes, that help redefines my outlook on humanity.

***

In 2012, I was a student at the University of Arizona.

One of the many things I loved about U of A was the number of restaurants on and near campus. There was such a variety of foods, it was like a cafeteria at the U.N.

One afternoon, I met a friend at a restaurant on East University Blvd (just west of campus) for a late lunch. It wasn’t far, and frankly, I needed the exercise, so I pushed there in my wheelchair, leaving my car in the 2nd Street Garage on the north side of campus.

On the way to lunch, I noticed my chair kept making a clicking sound. The faster I rolled, the more frequent the clicks. I thought maybe something had gotten stuck in one of my front wheels, as sometimes happened. I gave each one a quick inspection, but didn’t see anything lodged in the wheels. Nothing was hitting my spokes, and nothing had gotten caught on my chair’s frame.

Being hungrier than I was curious or concerned, I rolled on.

***

After lunch, I noticed the clicking continued as I rolled back toward campus. Another cursory inspection failed to reveal the source of the noise.

I came to the intersection separating E. University Blvd. from the main part of campus. The signal changed, and I entered the intersection to cross the street.

Midway across the intersection, the clicking stopped. The front end of my chair sank to the left, and I came to a grinding halt as the bracket that held the front left wheel in place skidded against the asphalt.

I watched in horror as my wheel shot out in front of me, rolling in the direction I was heading. Luckily, it stopped after it had only rolled about ten feet, and it hadn’t veered into the middle of the intersection or under one of the cars waiting at the red light.

It took all of my limited balance not to fall out of my now slanted seat.

Leaning back and to the right, I hobbled forward. I had to slide my left foot off my foot rest and plant it on the ground in order to stabilize myself enough to reach down and scoop up my unattached wheel without falling and eating asphalt.

The light changed. Now I was blocking traffic.

Cars began honking as I attempted to reach the sidewalk. No one seemed to notice that my means of conveyance was significantly impaired, or if they did, their sympathy was overridden by their frustration and growing rage that I was adding seconds to their commute.

I wobbled as I gingerly made it to the sidewalk. I took a moment to give silent thanks that I’d made it. I took a breath and tried to release the tangled knot of stress and panic that had woven itself around my innards. I kept leaning away from the slope in my seat to keep upright.

One of the aspects of U of A’s campus I came to greatly appreciate is, because the school hosts so many wheelchair sports teams, there’s a wheelchair repair shop on campus.

My immediate thought was, “I can make my way to the campus repair shop and have one of the service techs reattach my wheel.”

Only, I was on the western side of the northern half of campus. The repair shop was in the middle of the south side of a campus that spanned a dozen city blocks. In order to get there, I’d have to traverse a steep downhill slope that ran for half a city block. With a missing front wheel, that path had face-plant-sandwich written all over it with a side helping of “and Jill came tumbling after.”

Also, the repair shop closed at 3pm, and it was already after 2:30. Even if I could manage my way there on three wheels, there was no way I’d make it in time.

***

As I was sitting there, broken wheel in hand, without a clue of how to get out of the predicament in which I found myself, a singular thought occurred to me.

“I’m fucked.”

I sat there as people walked by, oblivious. Or at least pretending to be. Many had their noses buried in their phones.

Side note: the number of people I’ve rolled into or who have flat out walked into me because they’re wholly absorbed in their phones is higher than I can count. And that’s saying a lot…I can count pretty high.

Anyway…

I was stuck on the side of the street, knowing I needed to ask someone for help and desperately not wanting to. No one who noticed me sitting slanted with a broken wheel seemed concerned. Some quickly averted their eyes and walked a little faster. Others gave off a vibe that suggested they’d push me into the street if I dared bother them.

Typical, I thought. Don’t get involved, or someone else’s problem becomes your own.

I know…I’m guilty of thinking and acting like that in the past, too.

I sat there for about five minutes, not thinking of solutions to my problem, but dwelling on just how much shit I was in, and what I’d done to deserve it.

The pity-party I was throwing myself rivaled a Kardashian’s birthday festivities.

“Hey, dude, you need some help?”

I was so lost in my wallowing, I didn’t process it at first. When whoever had said it repeated it, I looked up to see two guys in their mid-twenties riding the most curiously constructed bicycles I’d ever seen. Elongated, with thick-tubed frames and with pedals up near the front tires rather than toward the back, their bikes were each spray-painted a dull gold color.

“Yeah,” was all the response I could muster.

They parked their bikes next to me and dismounted. They each had hair that draped down to their shoulders. One had dark brown hair and a dad bod. The other was thin with blond hair, glasses, and angular facial features.

“What happened?” the dark-haired guy asked.

I held up my detached wheel.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

The blond-haired guy knelt next to my chair. “Looks like you’re missing an axle,” he said.

Well, that would explain why the wheel fell off. How I came to be devoid of an axle, I’m not sure. Maybe it had something to do with that incessant clicking earlier…

“Where are you headed?” Blond Hair asked.

“There’s a wheelchair repair shop on campus, but it’s on 6th Ave, across from the Rec Center, and it closes at 3:00,” I said.

Brown Hair checked his watch. “We can get you there in time.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure…”

They hopped back on their bikes, brushing aside my uncertainty and seemingly unconcerned about the logistical nightmare of getting me and my broken chair across campus in such a short amount of time.

“Wait right here. We’ll be back in a minute.”

“Ok.”

…where was I going to go?

A minute later, they drove up in a beat up Chevy Blazer. Blond Hair exited the passenger seat.

“Hop in,” he said.

Oh, how I wish it was that easy. My hopping days being long over, I positioned my chair next to the SUV with his help, and tried to transfer onto the seat which was about a foot and a half higher than my wheelchair seat.

“It’s too high for me to get onto,” I said, pointing at the seat.

From the driver’s seat, Brown Hair leaned over and offered an arm. “Just grab on, dude.”

I didn’t bother explaining that whatever he was planning probably wouldn’t work, as we didn’t have time to debate it. A decisive failure would be more time efficient.

So I grabbed onto his arm.

Much to my surprise, he got enough of an initial pull that Blond Hair was able to get under my oversized ass and boost me onto the seat.

Well I’ll be damned…

Once I was in the car and sitting upright, Blond Hair closed the door behind me, loaded my chair in the back next to the bikes, sat in the back seat behind his friend.

“So where is the repair place?” Brown Hair asked.

“Corner of North Highland and 6th Ave. Closest parking is behind the dorms on 4th.”

He gave me a curious look.

“You guys students here?” I asked. I had simply assumed they were.

They both chuckled.

Brown Hair shook his head. “You tell me how to get there, and I’ll get you there.”

The clock on his stereo display read 2:56.

We wound our way through the streets that were little more than service roads and glorified bike paths and arrived next to the building with the repair shop in it right as the clock struck 3:00.

Blond Hair Jumped out, unloaded my chair, and hustled across the narrow pathway that led to the shop.

As I anxiously waited, Brown Hair asked, “So what happened?”

“I was trying to cross the street, and the wheel just popped off.”

He laughed. “No, I mean, how come you’re in a wheelchair?”

I gave him a quick summary of the accident in which I’d broken my neck.

Brown Hair sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Man…that’s some shit.”

Yes, it was.

He glanced over at me. “You seem to be doing alright now, though.”

Yeah, I suppose I was…broken wheelchair notwithstanding.

I kept an eye on the path, waiting to see if his friend would return with a repaired chair. In the meantime, we made idle chit chat.

No, they weren’t students. They both worked at a welding place and were amateur engineers in their spare time. Those bikes? They’d just finished building them and were taking them out for a test-ride when they’d come across me.

“That’s lucky,” I said with a small laugh. “Thanks. For helping me, I mean.”

He waved off my comment. “It’s nothing. Just happy to help. Who wouldn’t be?”

I didn’t mention the throngs of people who’d walked by without helping.

After a few more minutes of casual conversation, Blond Hair came up the path pushing a repaired and fully functional wheelchair.

“Good as new,” he said with a smile as he stopped next to the passenger side of the car.

I let out a heavy, relieved sigh. “Oh, thank God. Er, and you guys, too.”

They laughed as Blond Hair loaded my chair into the back of the SUV.

“Oh, I thought I was getting out here,” I said. I tensed as a small, but seemingly rational fear crept into my mind. It went something along the lines of, “Oh, we said we’d take you to get your chair repaired…we didn’t say anything about letting you go.”

I hoped the basement I’d end up in was dry, at least.

Brown Hair backed out of the parking space. “Didn’t you mention you were parked at the garage at the front of campus?”

I had.

“I’m just gonna drop you off there, if that’s cool with you.”

It was.

***

A few minutes later, we pulled up next to the 2nd Street Garage. Blond Hair got my chair out of the back and Brown Hair stepped out of the car and walked around to the passenger side.

Getting back in my chair was much easier, as I wasn’t fighting gravity.

“Thank you guys again so, so much for your help. I don’t honestly know what I would have done if you hadn’t stopped and helped,” I said. “Can I buy you guys a case of beer or something as a thank you?”

They chuckled.

“Not necessary,” Blond Hair said. He seemed to speak for both of them.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

I must have given them a look of disbelief because Brown Hair added. “Really, we don’t need anything. Just glad you’re ok.”

With that, we shook hands. They got back in their Blazer and drove off.

I sat there for a moment, mollified. Those two guys had helped me when I’d needed it most…and more than not expecting anything in return, they wanted nothing in return. I also felt like a colossal ass because it wasn’t until they were driving away that I realized, I was so absorbed in my panic and self-pity, I hadn’t asked their names.

Despite what they’d said, I felt I still owed them something to show them how grateful I was.

But that wasn’t why they’d helped me.

They helped me simply because I needed it. Because they felt it was the right thing to do. Because they could. Because the satisfaction of doing a good deed was reward enough.

Can you imagine a world in which more people did that?

***

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