A Second Hill

The road is dark. Ahead in the tall grass of the ditch two red dots reflect light back to me. The dots scurry away. I come to the stop sign for the highway leading to town and take a right. Southward I can see the glow of the city. Another day has begun.

As I head to the bottom of the first hill a white t-shirt flashes in my headlights. I catch a brief glance of a young man – arm raised, black baseball cap, jeans – as I whiz past. I tap my brakes in anticipation of stopping but decide it is best to be safe. I speed back up for my journey into town.

At the bottom of the second hill I change my mind. I turn around at the next crossroad and head back up the hill. I drive further than I remember traveling and I begin to wonder if I imagined the man. Then I see him. He his carrying a paper bag. Too many hours of watching cable news makes me wonder if the bag contains drugs, or worse, a gun. He sees that I have returned and the look of hope in his face makes me commit. Drugs, gun or not – I stop the car. This could be seen as risky behavior – perhaps I am embarking on yet another episode of bipolar mania. Oh well, may as well relax and enjoy the ride.

I am relieved when I see a face that looks sober. The face smiles as the young man wearing it slides into the seat next to me.

“So, where do you need to go? Iowa City?”

“No. I’m going to Solon, is that okay?”

Solon is the exact opposite of where I was heading but I have some time to kill before the coffee shop opens.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

I press the gas and we head north into the night. We ride for several moments in silence before the young man extends a hand.

“My name is John. And yours?”

I shake John’s hand. I can feel the calluses of carpentry or farming.

“I’m Dale. So, John what brings you out so early?”

“I got a DWI and they let me out of jail early.”

I laugh. “I’m familiar with DWIs.”

John tells the story of my life at his age – too much to drink, too little patience and a fear that life will never be what I expect and need it to be. Of course there is a woman and there is a fight and there is the heartbreak of separation. I resist the urge to give direct advice - difficult for someone of my immense wisdom. But I cannot resist a statement or two aimed at sharing personal experience.

“Yeah. I remember that I used to think, ‘I don’t get in trouble every time I drink.’ But then I came to realize that pretty much every time I got into trouble I had been drinking.”

John agrees and laughs obligingly but I can tell I have gone a bit too far. I retreat.

“But in the end I guess each of us has to find their own path…”

I hear a deeper note in John’s voice, “You got that right.”

Then we reach the end of our journey.

“Up here on the right. The brick house just past that car.”

I drive away. As usual I reflect on my actions. Dissect is more like it. Was it a good thing to help John? Was I engaging in risky behavior associated with being bipolar? Was I simply being self serving, trying to play out some role as a good Samaritan? Would it have been better for John to suffer the full consequences of his DWI by having to walk to Solon? Like it or not – this type of chatter follows me every day. I practice my breathing and by the time I reach the coffee shop, I am able to let go and leave it to life to sort out. I meant the act as one of kindness. That is the best I can do. The universe will have to determine the cosmological significance of me meeting John. I will settle for a good cup of coffee.