Infectious Altruism
A Holiday Story
There’s an elderly woman who lives near my writing office in town. Over the past ten years I’d seen her from my window, walking from her apartment building over to a cement bench across from the pizza parlor. She’d sit there for an hour or two with her little dog. Whenever I’d go out to buy my lunchtime sandwich or bagel, I’d be sure to pass by and exchange pleasantries, pet her dog, and find out how she was doing.
Then one day, I happened to notice her struggling in her vestibule. She was awkwardly trying to negotiate her way between the interior and exterior doors of the building with a shiny new aluminum walker — her little dog yapping and pulling every which way. I managed to get out in time hold the doors open for her, and then walk with her to her spot on the bench.
From that day on, I’d keep an eye her doorway around 11am each morning, and run out whenever I saw her attempting to leave. It became a regular thing—my sense of connection to community, to the past, or maybe to some nostalgic notion of service.
Then last year I moved to an office to a couple of blocks away, and became so concerned about my vestibule duties that I began timing my lunch break so that I happened to be passing in front of her building just around the moment that she would be coming out. And most days, I was spot on — or at…
