I was out on the back deck with Flash, the geriatric mutt,
enjoying the first day of 2016, a crisp snowless day. Our property backing up to a park as it does,
the woods extend far beyond the fence.
The silence was broken by the sound of a boy yelling, “Help!” I listened for a moment, to see if it was
repeated. It was, and then again a few
seconds later.
I realized that if the boy had fallen in the water, he might
be at risk of hypothermia, so there wasn’t time to call the police. There wasn’t time to holler into the house to
tell them what I was doing. I had to go
now.
I hopped the fence without much trouble, getting over the
slightly lower gate without crotching myself.
The brambles pulled at my jacket and one scratched my face, but I got
through them, only to step in thick mud and fall, staining my Christmas
corduroys. Finally gaining my feet, I
ran up the slick trail in Rockport penny loafers, slipping and sliding onto the
metal bridge, which was, if anything, icier than the trail.
Listening for additional cries, I followed the trail beside
the creek. The water didn’t look too
deep, but I figured it was entirely possible to have gotten injured and hung up
in the water…like if you were running in Rockports.
It was at about this time I started wondering if this was a
popular new gambit for hold-ups…somebody starts yelling for help and the first
sap to answer gets mugged. I’ll admit to
mulling that over, but I also didn’t stop running. And Good Lord, I am no athlete.
I finally came to the clearing where the cries were coming
from. There was a boy, probably twelve,
on the path in front of me. “Who’s
yelling for help?” I panted. The boy
started backing away from me. This
didn’t pass the smell test either. Did
this boy push another boy into the water?
Just then I saw a boy laying in the leaves beside the
creek. He was sheepishly getting up and
brushing himself off. It was a
hoax. A goofy, kinda-messed-up, but
still totally twelve year-old thing to do.
I couldn’t even lecture them because the adrenalin dump had gone. Exhausted, I started walking home, wondering
if they would have gone for help if I’d fallen on my face in front of them from
a heart attack.
We hear again and again that we must remain vigilant in the
post 9/11 world, and I won’t argue with that at all. We owe it to our fellow man to watch his
back. But sometimes, as with what
happened to me on New Year’s Day, people are going to say or do some outrageous
things in a misguided plea for attention.
These things may make us angry, but we still need to check them
out. If they turn out to be hoaxes, at
least no one is hurt. At the same time,
we can’t stop respecting the legitimacy of any cry for help.
A quick change out of my soiled cords and a dot of iodine on
my scratch, I got away with a sore quadricep and a spilled beer. I have to tell you, I know a lot of people
who enjoy going out for a job but I just don’t care for it.
It makes me think too much.
