He sat on the side of the road, just inches from traffic. He sat huddled beneath a black plastic bag and almost completely hidden from view. A huge pile of crushed cans lay next to him. At first we didn’t see him. We saw the cans, piled in the rain, and we wondered why they were left so close to the side of the road.
In Costa Rica, when it rains, the roads become treacherous. Rivers of water run in torrents down the steep winding hillsides, sometimes washing the blacktop away. Visibility is reduced to almost nothing and, on the extremely narrow lanes, accidents are often and deadly.
So a huge pile of crushed cans just inches from the traffic was cause for concern.
We slowed just out of curiosity and then saw him, sitting next to the cans and covered in a black plastic bag. A quick replay of the day’s events in my mind brought up the big black bag and a teenage boy picking up cans on my mind’s TV screen. He must have gotten caught in the storm and dumped all the cans out of the bag so he could climb inside for some shelter.
We didn't stop. We drove by too quickly in the rain. We could have gone back, but we didn't. I can tell myself that it would have been too dangerous to stop there on the narrow hillside, but that would not have been the truth as the boy was hiding from the rain at the entrance to a restaurant and we easily could have pulled safely into the driveway.
It was cold. I was wrapped in a sweater. I was shivering in my sweater. I let my mind drift to feelings of how cold the boy might have been and how wet he must have been despite his plastic protection.
We could have brought him a hot cup of coffee. Or better yet, we could have put all his cans in the back of our van and brought them to the recycling office instead of leaving the boy to carry them up the hill. I knew how steep that hill was. I walked it in good weather and had to stop three times to catch my breath in order to get to the top. And I walked it empty handed.
Sometimes you stop to help. And sometimes you don't. It doesn’t mean you don’t want to. In fact, it may tear at your soul for hours or even days afterwards. You see a little bit of someone’s story, but you miss the part after you might have stepped in. You don’t know where the story line went. You put down the book and lose the thread.
What was his name? Did he have a place to sleep at night? Why was he sitting so close to the road? Was he freezing under that empty trash bag? How old was he? How would his life have changed, or not changed at all, had I stepped in?
My questions would never be answered. And though, since not-stopping, a hundred rain storms have come and gone, my guilt has still not completely washed away.