STANDING MAN

 STANDING MAN

Standing man.  On a pavement in London. Face and clothing caked with blood. I stopped my car abruptly and leapt out.  As we waited for the ambulance I discovered he was 15 years younger than the 45 he looked to be at first glance – perhaps it was the ordeal taking its toll (although his gaze hinted at other traumas beside), one which had begun 20 minutes earlier when someone struck him above his eye as if with an axe, leaving a terrible and deep gash. Nobody on this busy street had thought to stop, whether driving or walking by. I gently placed both my hands on either side of his chest and placed my face where I thought he could see it easily. He was unsteady, in shock, trembling as he fought to stay upright, one arm outstretched as his hand kept a desperate grip on the top of the low wall next to him. No alcohol on his breath, his clothes though drenched bright red were otherwise unremarkable; he was clean-shaven. He slowly brought his head up, his expression flooding with gratitude, his eyes reaching out to me. I gave him such warmth that I could, holding and enfolding him with my presence. A man wandered over to admit he had been surveying the scene for some considerable time prior to my arrival; he retreated in the face of my sudden inability to make small-talk.  Even as the ambulance-man took him away, standing man continued turning towards me, speaking his thanks with his body as much as with his voice, which I found I was instinctively matching with every gesture and look of reassurance I could muster. I resumed my drive. I didn’t feel it was an episode typical of my city – leave alone the affluent area in which it actually took place. Regardless; standing man and I will always be joined together in that brief moment of shared humanity.

aladin London August 29 2011

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