Talks Too Much

I was nearing the end of a particularly nasty commute home Wednesday night when I ran into another delay. With apologies to those of you not familiar with Orlando, I  was cruising north on 17-92 from Lee Road toward Horatio when I came up over a little rise near The Enzian Theater and saw nothing but brake lights.

Traffic inched along for a few minutes, and eventually I could see far enough to make out three or four police cars and a few tow trucks. About the same time, I heard a traffic report telling me the left lane was blocked.

As I got closer to the accident scene, I saw an older woman crossing 17-92 on a bike. Well … not really a bike … it was one of those adult trikes with a big basket on the back. She had the slightly disheveled look that raises the “crazy” flag for me. The oversized bag, too many layers of clothes for a muggy 95-degree day, crazy-lady hair.

I’m not saying she looked scary crazy. More like cat-lady crazy.

And seeing her made me think immediately of a guy named Arnie Katzenberg.

When I was growing up in Sparta, Michigan, Arnie was one of those local characters who made small-town life interesting. The little old guy with big bug eyes was sort of the self-appointed cleaning man for the village. He wandered around every day picking up cans, bottles, cigarette packs, scraps of paper, and any other trash he found lying around. He collected it, threw it away, then went back out for more.

I don’t want to give the impression that we were a town of inconsiderate slobs. But you always have a few pigs who think the world is their garbage can. Luckily, we had Arnie to pick up after them.

Arnie might have been retired. Or maybe he was disabled. Rumor was he didn’t have any family. I think I was a little scared of Arnie when I was young, but my dad always talked to him on the street and I eventually realized the guy was OK. One year Dad organized an Arnie Katzenberg Appreciation Day with the Rotary Club. They had a lunch in Arnie’s honor, and presented him with an adult trike so he could get around town without walking all the time. Apparently Arnie didn’t drive.

From that day on, Arnie rode around on his trike and carried trash in the big basket on the back. He really seemed to love his ride.

I guess my dad had a soft spot for Arnie, because the man even had Thanksgiving dinner at our house one year. I remember it was a white Thanksgiving, and I was out for a snowmobile ride when Dad drove into town and picked up Arnie. I was way out in the field when they pulled into our place, and I took my time getting back to the house because I was a little nervous about having the trash picker-upper at our dining room table. But in the end everything was cool, and I probably received a subconscious lesson in being a decent human being.

So Wednesday night when I watched the lady riding her trike across the six lanes of 17-92, I got a little concerned when I saw her suddenly lose power in the middle of the road. Her chain had come off.

She was halfway across. I was in the far right lane. Northbound traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and there wasn’t much I could do. I figured some decent human being on the southbound side would stop to help her. I kept looking back, and no one was stopping.

I really wanted to get home.

Still, no one stopped.

Damnit!

After I passed the accident, I worked my way into the left turn lane, went over a block and then south a few blocks to the cross-street where I last saw Trike Lady. She was standing in the street looking at her disabled vehicle. I put down my window and asked  if she wanted help.

She nodded yes.

Trike Lady was either on her way to or from the laundry, so I took her laundry bag and detergent bottle out of the basket and put them on the ground. Then I put the trike on its side and worked the chain back onto the sprockets. I told her it should be OK for now, but that her chain was too loose and she needed to have a link removed. Unfortunately I didn’t have any tools with me, but she said she could take it somewhere.

After I righted the trike and re-loaded her basket, she reached into the laundry bag and took out a towel for me to clean my hands with. I said that was OK, I didn’t want to get grease on it. She said the towel was already dirty — which didn’t make me eager to touch it.  But it seemed important to her, so I wiped my hands on a stranger’s dirty towel.

Then she said thank you and told me that something good will happen to me.

So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

A quick fix, and she was on her way.