Samarat-ish

Wandering through Chicago afternoon heat not long ago, smoking a cigarette, I saw a woman on a bicycle staring at me. I blinked at her and continued walking on the sidewalk. I was a little surprised when she pulled up off of the street and headed straight for me.

She had that look in her eye that suggested she was about to ask me for something. My guess was a cigarette. I reached toward my pocket to retrieve one.

"Can I use your phone?" she asked. I continued to fish for my cigarettes. My brain told my hand "not cigarettes" and made me cock my head to the side.

"Excuse me?"

"Can I use your phone?" She explained in detail how she was working for a promotional agency but using her own phone, had gone over her limit and the phone had been disconnected. She wanted to call her father in California and have her service restored. She asked if I had free national calling, which I do, but pretended to be unsure about while I made my decision.

I cannot reconstruct in my head why I agreed to let her use the phone. I took it from my pocket and handed it to her with a look that I hoped said "please don't run off with my phone." I suppose it was the notion that I would want someone else to be helpful if I had a similar problem.

She placed her call and walked several steps down the sidewalk away from me. My eye went to the bag and bicycle she had left next to me, trying to ascertain if I could sell these items for as much as I had paid for the phone should she break into a sprint. I had already decided not to chase her if she decided to betray my kindness. I was already too sweaty, and I figured I could have the phone shut off in less than a half an hour. All I would really lose was my settings and contacts contained within the phone. Unless, of course, there is some huge scam involving stolen cell phones whose machinations I am unaware of. I tried to imagine how such scams might run as I appraised the items next to me.

The bicycle would maybe fetch $50, tops. The bag was more of a mystery. She had her purse with her, so I knew not to expect it to contain her driver's license or credit cards. It didn't seem heavy when she put it down, so gold bars was unlikely as well. Paper money was a possibility, but the mere fact that she had left it behind made this possibility seem remote.

I puffed on my cigarette and shifted my gaze from the possessions which would become mine should she flee to the woman herself, speaking into the telephone with a measure of agitation. She was at least as old as I am, and her face suggested she had a couple of years on me. I was a little concerned that someone might reach this age and still be dependent upon a parent to keep her phone alive. But such things are certainly not unheard of.

She finally finished her call and walked back to where I was standing, wiping what I presumed to be sweat or grease from her face off of the shiny surfaces of the phone. She thanked me several times, repeating the story about the promotions agency and her father.

"Thanks for not assuming I was a psycho who was gonna run off with your phone," she said.

"Well, I was prepared to sell your bag and your bike," I admitted.

"So, this thing...I'm promoting this show next Friday. A couple bands and a burlesque show." She reached into her bag, which I could now see was filled with small glossy cards advertising her event. "I'll put you on the list if you want."

I took possession of the cards she pressed into my hand.

"Seems like if I decide I'd like to go, I should pay my way in to increase the chances of you having continued cell phone service." She didn't seem to find this as amusing as I did, and pedaled off soon afterward. She said she would put me on the list anyway, under "phone man," should I opt to attend.

I walked home, thinking about the youth who had offered me a shot of what seemed like vodka on the street several months ago. Is it weird that I am more likely to give something to someone who asks on the street than to take something which is offered for free? I eye both groups of people with a certain amount of suspicion. I suppose that's something.