FROM RUSSIAN SOCIAL MEDIA:
Last night I was walking home. Late. My earphones in. I see something moving on the road—on the sidewalk, I mean. I move closer. A person. A person lying down. Or rather, a person crawling. And he's crawling so unusually, as if he's participating in a competition, kicking his feet and shifting forward. First thought: drunk! Second thought: dirty! It rained yesterday, slush. Third thought: What if he's not? I mean, not drunk?
Other people are hurrying past. It's evening, I need to get home. They're giving the crawling man a disdainful once-over. They're turning away. I need to go home too. My child's waiting for me. But what if he's not drunk... I approach him and ask cautiously, "Are you okay?" I'm surprised at my own rudeness: I've switched to the informal "you" without equivocation.
"Help me up," the guy says, chewing on some of the letters. His hands are crooked. His legs, too. He's had cerebral palsy. Since birth.
I hold out my hand, and he grabs it with his dirty, smeared hand. He smells like... soup.
"How did you end up here?" I ask. "Alone. On the road..."
"I went to get bread. My stepmother is sick. I fell. A cyclist pushed me. I can't get up on my own," the boy reported.
By then, he had already stood up, but he was holding my hand tightly.
"Do you live far away?" I ask, wondering what to do with him.
"No, over there." He waves his hand toward the house next door. "Bring me here, or I'll fall again."
"Let's go," I agree. He doesn't smell dangerous. He smells like soup.
"What's your name?"
"Oleg."
"Who do you live with, Oleg?"
"With my stepmother. She's sick. I need bread." "You went to buy bread, got pushed, and fell?" I recounted the events.
"Yes."
"And who usually buys bread?"
"My stepmother."
We walk past a multi-story building. People turn around with interest. Dirty Oleg (he crawled from the store, remember) and I, dressed up, from a presentation.
We approach the right entrance.
"Apartment 59. First floor. The keys are in my pocket." Oleg turns his bulging pocket toward me.
We enter the entrance, he lets go of my hand and grips the protective railing. He's almost home now. He habitually drags his feet as he climbs the stairs.
I unlock apartment 59 with Oleg's keys. We enter the hallway. It smells of soup.
A faint cry from the room:
"Oleg, is that you? Where have you been for two hours?" Did you buy bread?
I put the keys on the mirror and leave the apartment.
Oleg has cerebral palsy. He went out to the store across the street for bread two hours ago. A normal, healthy person could run for bread in 10 minutes. But Oleg has cerebral palsy. Which doesn't stop him from eating bread. So he went to get it. And someone pushed him. He fell. And crawled back for two hours. Straight along the dirty, wet road. Because everyone around him was rushing home. To their children, husbands, and wives. With their loaf of bread. And no time to help someone who had fallen get up. No-time.
I'm shocked. I can't yet put my finger on it. Probably because no one around cares about anyone. Especially not about Oleg. Dirty, hunched over. Because everyone who passed the crawling man clung to the saving thought, "He's drunk!", justifying his inaction. Not because we're bad. We're just in a hurry. We have important things to do. And Oleg has something to do too – he needs to buy bread...
My God, what was that?
Twenty minutes later, I ring the intercom at apartment 59. No one opens. I wait until someone comes out of the building, then I go in and ring the doorbell, which has "59" scrawled above it (I doubt Oleg scrawled it himself – his hands are crooked, he can't reach it). No one opens the door. Oleg is probably taking a bath. And his stepmother is sick. I hang the bag on the doorknob. It contains a loaf of bread and some Darnitsky cheese. And some cookies, marmalade, and tea. Oleg and his stepmother will have some soup and bread, which Oleg never bought, and then they'll have some tea and cookies.
Hang in there, Oleg. And don't fall again...
Author: Olga Savelyeva
