Good Samaritan Derangement Syndrome

Descending the steep driveway into the park, I've forgotten the speed bump lurking near the bottom. Unpainted and tree-shaded, it's taken out two club members in the last year. Suddenly it's right in front of me. I try to bunny hop it; stupid at 25 mph. Just a tiny bit of contact is enough to unbalance me, but I stay up long enough to reach the dirt shoulder.

I land hard on my right arm and shoulder, and toboggan downslope on my back— my CamelBack minimizing the sanding my skin is getting.

The slide ends, and I stay flat on my back and take stock. Definitely in shock; shaky, short of breath, and fuzzy of brain. The strongest signal is from the right elbow. Road rash for sure, and the arm feels weak and clumsy. I'll lie here until I can safely stand, or until my wife arrives. She's about 10 minutes back, and she's in for a surprise.

A face appears. “You OK?”

“Could be worse.”

Face: “What can I do for you?”

“I'm good, just gonna lie here for a while and enjoy the view.” I smile to make sure he knows I'm kidding and not concussed.

Face: “Can I get you some water?”

“No thanks, brother. I'm lying on my Camelback; plenty of water.”

Face: “There's a lot of blood and dirt. I've got bandages, wipes, and all that stuff in my pickup.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine.”

Face: “Can I call 911?”

“My wife will be along soon.”

Two more faces appear. Face 2, excitedly: “Are you OK? Should we call 911?”

“No thanks.”

Face 3: “You're bleeding. How about some wet wipes?”

I'm thinking, Leave me alone. I'm not bleeding, I'm bloody, and this is no place for a clean up.

But I say only, “I'm just gonna lie here and catch my breath.”

And almost immediately, Face 4 appears. “Can I do anything for . . .”

He stops abruptly at the “Hold it” gesture. My brain is clearing, and I'm ready for this Good Samaritan. “I'm fine. My wife will be here soon. There is nothing I need.”

Face 4, still hopeful: “I've got aspirin and Motrin.”

This is getting really annoying. “Any oxy?”

Face 4: “Wha?”

“It's not for the pain. I just like oxy.”

He leaves, abruptly.

Why did Oxy Guy even bother? He arrived in time to hear me brush off the others. And why did they keep coming after watching me turn down every offer? let's call it 'Good Samaritan Derangement Syndrome': people want to help, and if no help is needed, they perform helpfulness.

I'm imagining people lining up behind me to wait their turn. They were boating and barbecuing, when, suddenly, news of my accident somehow reaches them: word of mouth? pheromones? Instagram? And they flock to my dirt-bed, like pilgrims to a holy place.

The dream dissolves as another face appears; one I know.

“Hi Baby! I fall down go boom!”

“What did you do, Heap? There's blood and dirt all over you.”

I laugh. “So I've been told. But I'm OK, sweets. Help me get up, and we'll walk my bike to the picnic tables.”

I hang on to her as we walk down to to the park.

Liz: “I'll ride back to get the the car, and come pick you up . . . AGAIN!”

She's reminding me that she left me just like this 12 years ago, broken elbow, waiting at a picnic table. She rode 30 hilly miles back to our house to get the car. “I remember, Wonder Girl. Twenty mph! You're getting off easy this time. Only a few miles.”

She laughs. “But I'm not gonna let YOU off easy.”

She leaves me at the picnic tables, and I walk around, getting used to being upright. A man approaches, and I recognize Oxy Guy! I say a howdy, and he surprises me with: “You know why you crashed, right?”

He's over-loud and tense. “OK, I'll bite. Why did I crash?”

“Your bike is too big. You're supposed to be able to step over your top tube. If you can't, your bike is too big.”

He's weirdly upset, so I simply look at him. Maybe he'll work this out on his own. We stare at each other for a few beats until he blurts, “I'm a bike mechanic!”

I try hard not to smile as I say, “Thanks?” For a moment, he looks like he wants to hit me, but he turns, abruptly, and walks away.

At the ER, they X-ray me and park us in a waiting area. The other occupant, Frank, is a large man of about 60 in a matching work shirt and trousers. Large walking canes lean on the sides of his hospital wheelchair. After introductions, he asks about my arm, and I ask him why he's here. For an answer, he tells us a story that starts, “I'm in prison for robbing a bank. They brought me down here from Kingman to look at my hip implants. I'm lucky; prison healthcare's pretty good.”

The Bank Robbery, long story short: She leaves him and takes his car. He's limping to the train station, sees a bank, and decides to rob it. The cops pick him up less than two blocks from the bank, money bag still in hand.

I have to ask. "Why'd you rob the bank?”

He says, “I've found that the answer to that sort of question is always ‘because I felt like it.’”

The nurse comes for us, and Liz says, “Frank, good story, but I don't buy it.”

He smiles. “I could tell you knew I was lying.” Then he looks at me. “But YOU bought it.”

“One hundred percent, Frank.

We're in an ER cubicle next to that waiting room. I'm getting my road rash cleaned up. Liz and I, though, are staring at each other, mesmerized. We can hear Frank in the waiting room having a long conversation with a doctor. He's trying to score pain meds, and it's going badly.

Though we haven't said anything out loud, I'm sure we're both having the same flashback: We're in an ER cubicle 12 years ago and 2000 miles away. I'm getting my road rash cleaned up. And we're listening to a long conversation between a doctor and a guy in the next cubicle. He's trying to score pain meds, and it's going badly.

As we pull out of the ER parking space, I see a large man walking away from us. He's hunched over, moving very slowly with the two heavy canes I saw by his chair.

“Hey, babe, that's Frank! Let's go see if he needs anything.”

“Let's not, please.”

“Maybe he needs a ride, or there's something else we can do. I feel bad for the guy. We can drive over there, and I'll just roll down the window, and . . .”

She stops the car, puts it in Park, and looks me in the eye, serious.

“Heap, you don't HAVE what he needs.”

It takes me a few seconds. “Yeah, I get it.”