by Ken Stewart
I was wearing my dark glasses when the paratransit van deposited me at the interurban bus stop on the village’s main street, but my white cane was folded up inside my backpack. Immediately upon my arrival, the only other person at the bus shelter directed a question to me.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you watch my stuff while I go and get a soda?”
My pleasantly consensual response included a caveat related to my impaired vision. He trotted off, probably not even fully absorbing the cautionary coda, and I was left to muse about his compliment. I was not particularly complimented that he considered me a member of that class of people we sometimes refer to as “the temporarily abled.” The real compliment was that he appraised me as an upstanding citizen with the honesty and reliability to carry out his assignment faithfully.
Then, pursuing my duties conscientiously, I squinted toward where I believed my inanimate charges resided. I noticed that a third person had arrived at the bus shelter and was sitting in proximity to the prized luggage “stuff.” Moments later she suspiciously rose again and tottered off. I saw what was surely a widow’s hump and a full head of white hair on her tiny frame. Certainly not the stereotypical thief profile. I further concluded that her wobbly gate was the result of quite advanced age, not from the burden of a bulging Gucci shoulder bag or two.
The first words from the stuff’s owner upon his return established conclusively that both he and I had been good judges of character. He thanked me.