It’s been happening more often lately. At about 10 to 5 on Wednesday afternoon, I gathered my things together and fled the office in a rage, my brain sputtering from the thousand tiny injustices and humiliations I’d faced over the previous–well, almost 10 hours. It never seemed to stop. Every time I looked up, something else was waiting for me. Sometimes I didn’t even need to look up.

I hit the street and turned south, my head down, eyes unfocused, stomach turning clockwise as I argued silently (I hope) with various people and machines. I tend to keep my mouth shut most of the time at the office, but even doing that–perhaps even as a result of that–things add up.

I stayed on 7th, because 7th was wide and uncluttered, until I hit 23rd, then turned left. Twenty-third was wide and uncluttered, too. There were plenty of people around, but they were widely scattered and easily avoided.

When I reached my usual subway stop, I ignored it and kept walking, turned south again at 6th Ave. and forged onward. All I knew was that I just had to keep walking. The sidewalks weren’t as wide as the ones along 7th, but people pretty much stayed in their lanes, and things kept moving.

Until 17th St., that is. It was there that I found myself reduced to a crawl by the slow-moving gentleman in front of me. I wasn’t annoyed by this, though–he had every right to be moving slowly. Dragging the left foot, limping heavily, head lolling to one side, both arms curled up in front of him like a squirrel.

Oh, man.

Then, after just a few steps–Christ, I watched this happen–he got his left foot caught in a plastic shopping bag. He never broke stride, though. Continued plodding along, each dragged step cementing that thing around his foot–shhhk-klomp, shhhk-klomp, shhhk-klomp.

Part of me was fascinated by the slapstick potential here (would he hit the coiled garden hose next? Or the bucket?)–while part of me wanted to help him out. But what do you do? If I tried to stomp on the thing from behind (hoping he’d step out of it), there was a good chance I’d send him sprawling to the pavement. So, do I tap him on the shoulder? Do I ask him to stop? Jesus, what do I do? All the while, he’s limping on ahead–shhhk-klomp–either unaware of the bag, or utterly humiliated, knowing there isn’t a goddamn thing he can do about it.

In the end, I did what most people would do–I turned yellow, pulled my eyes away from the bag and tried to pass him.

This was difficult, though, given the oncoming foot traffic and my own lack of dexterity. Still, I gave it a shot–and everything was going fine until I came alongside of him. Only then did I notice that, with that curled and crippled left hand, he was manipulating a red-and-white cane, just like the one I had folded up in my bag.

The yellow streak on my back suddenly grew wider and deeper, and, filled with shame as I was at this, I shot ahead, listening as the shhhk-klomp slowly receded behind me, finally being swallowed up by the noise of the traffic and the crowds.

At 16th St., I hit a red light.

As I stood there waiting, praying the light would change soon so I could get the hell out of there, I heard it again. It was getting louder–and closer.

In a moment, it was directly behind me. Then it stopped. Then I heard a wet, strangled, nasal voice ask, "Sssomebonny hehlp me?"

The crowd around us on the corner, as should be expected, vanished in several different directions, leaving us alone. I was feeling bad as it was, so I stepped around next to him, and held out an elbow.

"Here’s my arm," I told him. Once he had a firm hold, I looked down at the bag, put my foot on one edge of it and said, "Lift your left foot."

As he lifted the foot, it stayed tangled, and he began stumbling backwards.

Then he began to scream.

"Aaannnhh! Whan’s hammineen?!"

Fortunately, with all the flailing about, he had broken free of the bag, which I kicked to the side.

"It was just a plastic bag," I said. "It’s gone now."

He regained his composure, and the light changed. "Here we go."

We stepped out into the street. About halfway across, he said quietly, "Hang you fo hehlpee’ me."

"That’s okay. You gonna be okay once we get across here?"

He made a little noise that I took to be a confirmation.

On the opposite corner, I stopped. He let go of my arm, and got the cane ready again.

"Well, be careful," I said, giving him a small, pointless wave.

To be honest, I’d incurred some hefty karmic debt earlier in the week. Bad news. The kind of weight that can follow you for 20 years or more. I have a few of those following me around. And while that little scene certainly wasn’t wiping any slates clean, it might’ve polished a little smudge somewhere in the corner, there. Probably just enough to balance out passing him without stopping to help in the first place.