The Abercrombie Parable
The other afternoon I observed something on my drive home from work that has been bothering me ever since. About twenty five miles south of town I make the transition off of the I-10 freeway onto the 387, which heads east even further into the desert. On a typical day, there would be nothing noteworthy at this intersection. There are no gas stations, or any facilities for at least twelve miles in any direction – just strips of yellow and white painted pavement contrasting the otherwise barren desert landscape (see a picture I took of the intersection above). Normally, there would be no reason for anyone to be there who was not just driving by on the way to somewhere more relevant. Yet there, in the middle of nowhere, was a young man.
He stood straddling the edge of the dirt and pavement; his bare toes poking out onto the road. He was shirtless yet had designer blue jeans and nice belt on – something I would expect to see in an Abercrombie and Fitch ad perhaps, but not here. His statuesque pose was very much like the iconic Superman depiction – clenched fist on his hips, elbows angled outward, blankly staring out into the intersection. Blankly staring at what? I thought. And why?
I only had about thirty seconds to process the scene as I made the turn from the interstate onto the highway. I looked again at his clean bare feet, and found it unlikely that he had walked there twelve miles or so through the desert without shoes. I scanned the landscape for his shirt and shoes or a broken down vehicle – nothing. This twenty something man – his short curly blond hair blowing in the wind – was well groomed and did not give the impression that he was homeless or hitchhiking across America. In fact, I was taken aback by how he had no interest in flagging me down, or even making eye contact – both things I assumed someone looking for help or a ride would attempt. He just stood there with his fists on his hips and stared off into the distance as I rounded the corner and pulled off past him.
My first thoughts were that this was some sort of social experiment – intentionally designed to challenge the social norms and observe reactions. I’ve done similar things before in the form of flash mobs and assignments for sociology classes. While it’s possible that this was the case, the remote and unpopulated location seemed a bit extreme. Other explanations quickly started coming to mind as I drove off down the street. I wondered if he was on drugs. I questioned if he might be suicidal – as is often the case with a freeway pedestrian mix. I watched in my rear view mirror to see how other drivers were responding. I wondered if anyone would stop and ask him if he needed anything. They didn’t. As I continued to drive I had a slight urge to turn around. I subconsciously kept that urge at bay with excuses. “That’s exactly what the joker wants” I thought. “I’ve got to get home and pick up my daughter from gymnastics.” “If he needed something, he would have asked”. The excuses continued to flow like a mountain spring until I drove far enough away that I only needed one – “I’ve gone too far. By the time I got back he would be gone or someone else would have already stopped”. At that, my urge to return began to subside, and I completed my commute home.
That evening when thinking about the strange occurrence, I remembered a story I had read earlier this year about a group traversing a high mountain peak in Nepal. The group had been anticipating the mountain climb for a long time and, for the man writing the story, it was an especially important one – as he had attempted it six years earlier and was forced to give up on account of altitude sickness.
As the Swiss group made their way up the mountain, they encountered another group of climbers carrying someone down the mountain towards them. The hikers from New Zealand had found an Indian holy man – a Sadhu – laying and trembling in the snow on the side of the trail. The man was very sick and suffering from hypothermia. The group had brought him down to the nearest group below them, but was angry that they had wasted precious daylight and told the Swiss group he was now their problem. The Swiss group helped the Sadhu by clothing him with extra clothing from their packs. Noticing that there was a Japanese group not far behind them, the man telling the story suggested that they should ask the Japanese to take him down on their horse. Leaving two of his group members behind to have that conversation with the Japanese, he continued on with his guides in an effort to get over the pass.
Later, after a time of victorious celebration at the summit, the Swiss man noticed the rest of his group coming up to meet him. As he ran up to congratulate them on completing the climb, he realized that one of them was very angry. “How do you feel about contributing to the death of a fellow man?” his friend asked. “Is the Sadhu dead?” he inquired. “Not yet, but he soon will be”. His friend went on to explain that when they got down to the Japanese group they refused to spare a horse or the time to help the Sadhu. They needed the horse for the items they carried on the hike. Instead, they carried him down to a rock in the sun and left him laying there. The remaining Swiss climbers were forced to climb back up to the summit or be stuck on the mountain with no guides, supplies, or shelter, and would likely have died themselves.
I remember the storyteller writing about dwelling constantly on the situation after he got back from that trip. He never found out what happened to the Sadhu. He realized that making the summit wasn’t nearly as important as he had thought at the time, and he wished he had handled the situation differently.
I don’t know what happened to the young man on the side of the road. Perhaps a car full of his giggling friends picked him up and took him home so he could get started on his Sociology 101 paper. Perhaps he sobered up. Perhaps someone else stopped, found out he was thinking about stepping into traffic, gave him a hug, and convinced him to get in their car. Although we were not on an icy mountain, and he was obviously not suffering from hypothermia on that spring day in the desert, I can’t help but see the parallels to the Parable of the Sadhu. Though the situation may not have been as life threatening, there was possiblity – no matter how small – that it was. The cycle of excuses I went through in my mind was eerily similar to the excuses each of the hiking groups espoused. I don’t have time. He’ll be OK. He’s not my responsibility. Someone else will help him. I’ve gone too far to go back.
An important part of getting past these unfortunate tendencies to mind our own business and not to concern ourselves with the “issues” of others is recognizing our westernized affinity for it. I am working on it myself, and it’s a continual process. My hope is that someday my nature will completely change and I will find it easier to stop and inquire than to drive away – excuses flying – and assume everything is fine. After all, perhaps one day I’ll be the man shirtless and shoeless on the side of the highway – wondering why everyone just keeps staring and driving by.
