A much-belated valentine to the man in the wheelchair on Beacon Hill

25 years later, I'm still thinking about you.

You and I exchanged maybe 25 words in the four years I lived in Boston's Beacon Hill neighborhood.

Twenty-five words and yet 25 years later, I'm still thinking about you.  The you I didn't know.  The you I’ve never forgotten.

Were we the same age then?  You seemed younger than my 30-something.  And older too.  Your confinement to a wheelchair might have had something to do with that ambiguity.

I only encountered you on Saturdays when I'd leave my Revere Street apartment at the top of Beacon Hill to head to our for a leisurely weekend coffee. I'd thread my way through the labyrinthine streets of the neighborhood, past the backside of the Massachusetts State House, and down the sloping hill's backside until coming to the brutish behemoth of Boston City Hall. From there, I'd bop down the surrounding massive concrete steps toward Haymarket - the outdoor markets where, after a certain hour, you'd have to slosh your way through the detritus of fallen, tossed, or accidentally dropped fish, soft fruits and mushy vegetables. Sidestepping puddles of urine and refuse, I'd hurry through the graffiti-strewn tunnel that ran under I-93 and emerge into the North End. There, I'd sit for hours, nursing cappuccinos and journaling in my spiral notebook, in which, I don't believe I ever wrote a word about you. 

I'd pass by you on fresh, spring days or occasionally on a suddenly warm late fall day.  Most often, our worlds overlapped on humid, broiling days of summer when Boston's streets -- even the snobbier ones -- all had a stink rising off them, a vague stench of refuse and centuries of traffic: human, horse, cat, dog, and rats, of course, all those paws, hooves, and feet that trod these storied streets of Boston's oldest 'hood.

But you weren't walking.

Whenever I saw you, you were always sitting in your wheelchair, your body leaning to one side, hands in your lap, the chair placed in front of one of those unimpressive buildings commonplace to the grittier side of Beacon Hill, quite unlike the grander, red-bricked town homes on the gas-lit, cobblestone chi-chi streets that sloped toward the Charles Street side of the hill. 

I assumed you lived in the building you were in front of ... but who brought you outside?  You didn't seem able to navigate the building threshold yourself, so who left you on that less-lovely street without even the shade of a tree to keep you company? 

Most times I walked by your building, you weren't outside.  But on those infrequent Saturdays when our lives intersected, your eyes always caught mine.  Or was it vice versa?  I do know I was always conscious of looking for you once I turned onto your street. Always wanting to make eye contact.  Always wanting to let you know that I saw you.  Not just the chair.  Not just the humbled body.  But you.  The man. 

I say I wanted that, but I never made it happen.

Oh, sure, we exchanged a few words now and then.  The first tentative "Hi's" graduated to "Great day, huh?" and blossomed into the practically epic, "It's almost too hot to be outside today, isn't it?"

Short comments guaranteeing equally short answers.  "Hi." "Yes."  "Sure is."

Were you hungry for more than that?  Writing that question 25 years later, something skitters across my heart.  A remnant of regret? Or is it shame?

Because I never offered more.  I never gave more. 

I was afraid.  Afraid of crossing a line with a stranger, yes, but mostly -- a line with a stranger in a wheelchair.  The line that worried, "I don't want him to think I feel sorry for him." 

I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have cared what my motivation was.  I'm fairly positive you would have just been happy to have someone to pass the time of day with.

Instead, I hid behind my fear.

Me, with my two strong legs that gave me easy access to wherever I wanted to go for whatever I wanted to see or taste or do: North End pizza, Back Bay shopping, Chinatown Bánh mi, waterfront bocce courts.  Me with my arms swinging or full of books and baguettes.  Me with a smile on my face because what in the world didn't I have to smile for?

Me, with decades ahead of me of walking and moving and freedom.

I told myself I didn't want to offend you.  Didn't want you to think I was doling out charitable niceties to the poor guy in the wheelchair.

If I'm honest, it wasn't just for you that I didn't go into the breach.  Though I don't recall this being a conscious thought, I'm thinking it now, so I probably felt it then:  I didn't want to get close to you.  To what you might need.  To what you might expect of me if we became even slightly friendly. 

Scared you'd want something from me that I couldn't give. Or worse, something that I wouldn't want to give.

Like more than the inanity of weather talk.  Like friendship.  Like time.  Like missing my frickin' precious cappuccino in the North End just to be friendly with some guy who would never be able to go there with me.

I'm ashamed to write this.  Ashamed to acknowledge how limited I was.  How little I was willing to give. How small my mind -- and heart -- must have been.  Did I think there was some rule prohibiting men in wheelchairs from going for coffee?  Couldn't we have been friends of any sort?  Couldn't I at least have sat down on the curb next to you and asked you what you were reading, or told you about my cat, or explained how I got chocolate mashed onto the front of my blouse? 

Instead of anything meaningful, I exchanged the most minimal pleasantries with you.  I smiled at you and inside felt guilty because I would not stop and make more of an effort to be human with your humanity.  Your hurting body.  Your willingness to be seen, to get out on that street and sit there alone, intensely vulnerable — your unblinking courage in the face of what was happening to your body.

You did not hide.  You came outside, when you could, into the land of the people who could go and do and be things you could not.  You didn't hide your body.  Or your heart.

You were brave. 

I was a coward. 

And I’m sorry.

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