Wondering & Worrying

It was late at night; a cold, snowy night. That’s when I first saw him. On my way home from the late shift I noticed him walking down a small avenue, staggering around in the snow, clad with only a thin jacket in parka-worthy weather. He seemed to be in quite some pain, considering the grimace on his face and the chattering of his teeth.

I approached him gingerly to offer help; he seemed to be ill or dehydrated or something judging by the unruly zigzag motion he was walking in. When I reached him I attempted to show only a calm and reassuring disposition so that he wouldn’t fear the anonymous citizen (me) coming to aid him.

I offered him my help in a clear and concise way, but he simply rebuffed it spontaneously. What I mean is, I didn’t really expect him to refuse, especially in him his condition. Actually he seemed rankled by the offer, so I quickly surmised that he was an irascible person and that I would have to be patient to provide any assistance to him.

Now that I was closer to him, I was able to smell the alcohol on his breath that pervaded the air around him. I conjectured that he was only about 17 years old, but still, he was very drunk. He was in no condition to be wandering around, especially not in the snow. I entreated him to let me help him, but this time, he didn’t even answer me; instead, he looked lost in profound thought and then suddenly, in a tremulous voice, called out to someone named Allie, and began so interminable conversation with him.

From what he said I could tell he was pretty avid about Allie. He said that Allie was an affable boy; one to be emulated and admired. I endeavored to understand him, though I really couldn’t find a way to without the full story about Allie. After a while of babbling, his voice became firm and told Allie that it was imperative that he go get his bike and meet him in front of Bobby Fallon’s house. Soon, he snapped out of the mysterious trance and noticed the puzzled look on my face; that’s when he started explaining about Allie.

He told me about how Allie was his younger brother and about the painful battle with cancer that he encountered. He described to me how excruciatingly painful it was to lose him, and furthermore, how turbulent the path to moving on felt. He described Allie’s baseball mitt and the anthology of poems written on it in green pen. Then he told me about the loss of Allie had instilled anxiety in his mother, and depression in him. When he finished his story, he was left despondent, as though retelling the story had evoked memories of the gruesome death that haunted him and continued to reverberate in his mind.

I tried my best to comfort him, but he pulled away and stared at me like there was something wrong with me. At this point I decided to make a final attempt to help him, but I knew it would take a conscientious effort and a lot of prudency to convince him that it was okay to ask for help if he needed it.

After many explanations, offers, and begging, he still would not succumb to my pleading. I figured that the only thing I could do to provide him safety was through giving him some company, though I felt impelled to do so much more to help him.

I began to wonder though, what if these drunken wanderings were a recurring issue? What exactly was the current situation (that caused him to harm himself) that he couldn’t extricate himself from? Why didn’t he listen to my sage advice?
When the sun rose, the boy was long-gone, but I stayed, wondering, and worrying.