The Bum's Jacket

Author: Slyvester Dudetown

Source: articlecity.com



I saw the dirty old, carhartt coats, jacket lying on the floor of the train and I knew, carhartt coats, I had to act fast. Time was a factor, and decisive action needed to be taken.

The Eastbound LRT was stopped, carhartt coats, at a station. I was standing in the area near the door when I saw a bum's jacket drop to the floor unbeknownst to him, then he made his way towards the exit.

Now I don't use the word bum here to be derogatory in any sense. I simply mean to say that he was a homeless man. I could tell by his limping gait, slumpy posture, tattered clothes, and the faint odour that trailed behind him. He was short, middle-aged, and had a scruffy beard.

The man clearly needed his jacket for the long Canadian winter months that lie ahead. Being a good samaritan,, carhartt coats, I retrieved it from the floor and called out: "Sir, you dropped your jacket". Note the use of "sir". It's a polite, carhartt coats, way of addressing a man older than yourself, bum or otherwise.

The man did not hear me, and made his way out the exit. I followed him to the door, his dirty old sport jacket in hand,, carhartt coats, with the intention of returning to him one of his only possessions.

I was confronted at the door by a large group of people trying to board the LRT, and standing in the doorway put me in their way. I was faced with a dilemma: should I get off at this stop and bring my coat to this man, possibly missing the train and being forced to wait for the next one? If I didn't make this kind gesture, the man would not be reunited with his precious jacket, and I would be consumed with guilt.

I think that, carhartt coats, if it were an attractive girl who dropped her coat I wouldn't hesitate to exit the train and return it to her in a somewhat heroic fashion. Maybe, after some awkward small talk I could work up the courage to ask her for her phone number. A few dates later we would then joke that fate led her to drop it, for had she not, we never would have met.

The reality of the situation was different. I was, carhartt coats, determined to return the jacket to its owner without disembarking from the LRT. From the doorway of the train I could see him stagger, carhartt coats, away, coatless, but I couldn't get his attention. It was then that it occurred, carhartt coats, to me: I could throw the jacket at him.

But maybe, I thought, there is some unwritten social code that says you shouldn't throw a person's jacket on the ground. The bum may not be aware that I picked the coat up off the floor of the train in the first place, and hadn't found it on, say, a seat instead.

Had it come to this? Was there no other alternative? I was playing out the potential scenarios, carhartt coats, in my mind. The man could become enraged by my actions and come towards me screaming, perhaps drunk, schizophrenic even, and flailing his, carhartt coats, arms about like some kind of damaged blender. "Just because I'm a dirty bum ya think ya can just throw my coat on the ground, huh, college boy? I'm a human being too! You can go to hell and die!!"

Curious onlookers would begin forming a semicircle around us, watching this angry man explode at me with rage. They would have no sympathy for me, especially those of whom saw me throw his coat on the ground. I would become the object of the collective scorn of my fellow passengers. While reasonable to myself, my actions would be difficult to explain in so short a time. They would think I'm some insensitive, classist jerk, who gets kicks from treating a desperate man like an animal. My heart would turn bitter and I would vow never to help a stranger again.

The commuters trying to board the train were clearly unaware of the severity of my situation. They had jobs to get to and I stood in their way.

My mind was made up. I crumpled his coat into a something of a ball shape to maximize its throwability. Then, carhartt coats, I launched it towards the man's feet, not directly, carhartt coats, at them, but close behind. "Here's your coat!" I yelled. The die was cast. My fate hung in the air, out of my hands, not unlike the grungy jacket. There is no going back now. What's done is done.

Hearing the "flomf" that a coat makes when it hits the ground, the bum turned around and picked it up, his eyes growing wide and thankful.

"Thank you!" he called out to me, a toothless, carhartt coats, grin on his withered face. I did the right thing.

I couldn't help but feel a little smug for the rest of the train ride. An elderly Asian woman who saw me pick up his coat and throw it gave me a smile of deep approval, seeming to share my belief that any man -- bum or otherwise -- deserves to have his dropped jacket returned to him in the manner most efficient, up to and including catapulting it in their general direction.

I felt proud to have explored the line of socioeconomic boundaries in interhuman protocol, and to have thrown a jacket across it.