A man walking downtown on a rainy afternoon in mid-December gets approached by two burly men in insulated coats and Timberlands.
"Give me your wallet," one says.
The man quickly deliberates. He knows that his wallet contains just over $900. He'd taken his Christmas savings out while the wife and kids were at a school play rehearsal this afternoon. He'd intended on spending it on their Christmas.
"Your wallet," the other says, nudging him, lifting his coat so the Colt 45 is visible at the waistline.
It was all he had left. He pictured the faces of his kids on Christmas morning. His wife...he could imagine her eyes, distant, saddened.
"No," he says, pulling himself to his full height.
The men grab his arms and forcibly lead him into a nearby alley. They steal his money, his coat, and take turns beating and kicking him for resisting. When he can move no longer, they leave him there.
The man is unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time, but when he awakes, he musters every bit of energy to inch closer to the entrance of the alley. After several minutes of struggling, he heaves himself finally to where he knows at least the crown of his head might be visible from the street.
Bless him, he had no idea how he looked--just like any other bum, fallen victim to time and place, struggling to survive.
That same afternoon, at precisely such a time, a minister from a prominent local church was walking downtown, preoccupied with thoughts of the Christmas cantata that weekend. "Should we offer tea after? Or not?" he thought as he walked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what he thought must have been the bloodied crown of a person's head, just at the entrance to the alley closest to him.
He had heard about these types of manipulations.
Without missing a beat, he quickly looked behind him and turned and headed across the street.
"God help us all," he prayed a bit too loudly, picking up his pace.
The man left for dead in the alley had no knowledge of this missed opportunity for rescue. He slipped in and out of consciousness. He thought he heard something scurrying behind him. "God, help me," he breathed, and slipped into the darkness again.
At just that time, a student from the local university walked downtown, occasionally glancing in illuminated store windows, completely lost in thought. "Biology test tomorrow. Research paper Thursday....When are we going to volunteer at the Salvation Army?" He couldn't remember.
"What is that?" he stopped, noticing what looked to be the head of a person, a man?, lying face down on the pavement at the entrance to the alley closest to him. "Dear God!" he breathed, not moving an inch, waiting to see if the figure moved.
It didn't.
"What the--?" he said, unsure of what to do. His mind raced. "What if this man has been killed?" he thought. "What if they think I had something to do with it?" And as he contemplated to what degree this could disrupt his already busy schedule and workload, he found himself jogging to the other side of the street and backtracking to his car.
"God, please help me," the broken man said as he awoke in the alley. He felt a searing pain in his head, tasted the drying blood in his mouth. He could feel an all-over ache from the wounds that had been inflicted. "I can't move my arms...or legs," he thought.
He wasn't an idiot. He didn't have much time.
Just then, a man wearing a name tag with "Harold III" imprinted on it left the sandwich shop downtown where he worked weekdays. He nearly got run over by a young college student who was sprinting up the street, looking over his shoulder as if someone were following him.
Harold III stood outside the shop and watched the young man run up the street and then turn into a parking garage. No one seemed to be following the kid. Maybe he'd outrun trouble.
It was starting to get cold. Harold III fumbled for the gloves he knew were shoved down into his coat pockets. He pulled out the note from Teresa, instead. The note that told him she was leaving him after eleven years of marriage.
"Merry Freaking Christmas," he said, tossing the note to the side, heading down the street, still angrily grabbing for gloves.
Harold III was no one special to anyone now. He and Teresa had never had any children, although he'd wanted one--at least one. There had been many fights about that. There had been her son, his step-son, but the young man had moved to California last August to live with his dad and go to college.
Teresa didn't need him anymore now. She'd moved on.
Lost in his thoughts, Harold III walked on, wondering how long he could afford the rent on the trailer and how much money he needed to pack up and move to Colorado. He'd always thought about spending time there.
He had nearly passed the first alley when he reached for a cigarette inside his coat. His eye caught something--alive--in the alley...
Harold III dropped his cigarette and ran over immediately to the man. There was blood everywhere. He knelt down and wiped up some of the blood off of the man's face with his shirt sleeve.
"Pulse...Pulse..." he whispered, running his rough hands over the neck and wrist of the man, wondering if it was any use.
Harold III looked desperately up the street where he had walked. No one was there. "Never anyone when you need someone," he said, matter-of-factly.
He heard the man gasp and moan slightly.
"He's alive!" Harold III stated, rather loudly, and then, without stopping to think of the logistics or legalities, he heaved the man up and threw him over his shoulder.
The half-conscious man expelled what Harold III feared was his last breath.
"Jesus," Harold III said as he stumbled with the weight, cursing under his breath at the load and the blood that had soaked his coat, and headed in the direction of the local hospital.
Only the streetlights illuminated the streets.
It was freezing now, yet Harold III could feel his forehead and armpits perspiring with the effort.
The hospital was three city blocks up. He knew this path. He'd taken it many times before. But it seemed to take forever now. He thought, with every step, about whether he should have just left the man and gone for help.
"Poor sap," Harold III thought.
Harold III could hear the man, gasping, as if he were trying to say something. He didn't want him to worry.
"I'm taking you to the hospital," Harold III said, and he could already see the illuminated blue sign one block away. "To the ER."
He could feel the poor, bloodied man relax, and Harold III was grateful. He could shift his weight now and forge ahead, these last few paces.
When Harold III walked through the automatic doors carrying the bloodied bloke left for dead in the alleyway, the attendants jumped to attention and there was a flurry of motion that caused Harold III to feel dizzy.
He looked at the man, now lying on the gurney, eyes spacey, and said, "Good luck, 'ole boy."
As Harold III walked away from the ER that night, he felt like more than just the weight of the man had been lifted from his shoulders.
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