Infected Train

His infection looked quite serious.

He pulled the leg of his jeans up to show the train-car of passengers his wound and begged us all for help. Not in a hysterical way, not in a belligerent way. In a very sad and ashamed kind of way.

And every passenger on that train stared at him. I could even hear a few disgusted gasps as he displayed the infected gash on his calf. I thought, surely, once the passengers saw this, they would act on compassion and help him. But no one moved except me. I immediately reached into my purse as everyone else disconnected and looked at their electronic devices or listened to music from their ipods. Everyone else ignored him.

He had said he was homeless, he had just come from Rush Hospital and was trying to fill a prescription that was $18 dollars and he only had $4, and as he winced in pain, I thought to myself, this man is begging for medical attention. I seriously doubted he would be using any of this money for booze or illegal drugs, I could only hope that he was being honest and as soon as he got this money he would fill the prescription for antibiotics.

He just kept saying he was sorry, he didn't want to bother any of us, he just didn't know what else to do. His eyes looked so full of sorrow and shame. And either he was a wonderful actor or his energy was so sad and desperate that I barely thought twice about helping him.

I looked into my wallet and realized I only had a $10 bill.

He was close to my age and wore a zip up hoodie, his face looked lined with worry and his eyes were small and slightly glassy. He had a non-threatening frame, carried a backpack, and as soon as he'd hobbled onto that train I'd known something was wrong. I'd kept my eyes on him and part of me wondered if this was a man who had perfected his scam or if this was a man who truly needed medical care.

I nodded at him and he came over to me and I handed him the $10 bill.

"I'm so sorry," he said to me. "I'm so sorry, thank you."

I just nodded my head at him with compassion. He sat back down. No one else moved to help him.

"I'll be getting off at the next stop," he announced to the car after several minutes. "If anyone else can help. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be bothering anyone."

But no one else helped him.

He got up and looked at me sadly before he got off the train, "I'm sorry," he told me again. His face and voice sounded pathetic, like he had no idea what else to do anymore, like he was at the end of his rope and hadn't wanted to beg but could come up with no other way.

"It's okay," I told him.

And he got off the train.

I was astonished that no one else had offered to help him. Was I just that much of a gullible sap? Was I just buying into this young man's act? Was he really not suffering and simply fantastic at putting on a show? But the wound. What about that wound? It really did look very bad. He'd said that he didn't have a medical card and the prescription was $18 dollars. But if he didn't have insurance, wouldn't antibiotics be much more expensive than that? Were generics not that expensive even without insurance? My mind swirled around as I wondered if everyone else on that train had chosen not to get involved because they didn't believe him and I was just a sucker, or if no one else had helped because they did not care.

I suppose I won't ever know.

I've lived in Chicago for almost 7 years and I've seen scores of homeless people and beggars and I've ignored most and helped some. But I hadn't recalled a situation like this--and this urge to immediately assist because I felt it was the right thing to do.

I can only hope that the man will find his way, whether he was lying or not.

Because whether it was medically or emotionally or physically or all of the above, this man had been suffering. And at least for me, I find it incredibly difficult to look into the eyes of a soul who is truly suffering, and just turn the other way.