Common Courtesy

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”

I extended my arms to steady the young man I had just carelessly stumbled into.  He did not return the courtesy. Instead, he just glanced around in confusion, as if he was only disturbed by the trickle of raindrops falling from the October clouds.  He stood still, frantically darting his eyes back and forth as if they were trailing a small fly buzzing in his personal space. Feeling disturbed myself, I tracked his movements, wondering why he wouldn’t bother to say a word.

The people in this town aren’t like that.

The people in this town never pass you without saying hello.  The people in this town never forget your name. The people in this town never lose track or sight of you.

This town is a tiny town.  It is a town that is overrun by mom-and-pop shops.  It is a town that still has not torn down the archaic buildings that were erected in the late 1800s.  It is a town where you know more about your neighbors than you sometimes care to. It is a town where your neighbors know more about you than you sometimes care to.

As for this ignorant passer-by, he clearly was not a resident of this town.  He couldn’t be; the people in this town aren’t like that. He couldn’t possibly live here; everyone in this town is at least friendly with one another.

Curiosity and irritation got the best of me, so I decided to investigate this young man a tad bit longer.  He still stood, dumbfounded, trying to understand what had just occurred. He was tall and lanky, but proportionate, and his curly, chocolatey hair came just past his ears.  He must have been about 20 years old, based on the absence of any sort of wrinkles on his baby-like skin. I concluded that I had never seen him before, but I knew that his name was Owen.

After the effect of our absurd encounter wore off, Owen returned to his route, walking briskly with his head down, clearly on a mission.  I responded to this mission and eagerly followed him down the street. With each step, I grew more curious. With each step, I grew more eager.  With each step, I wished that Owen would unveil his deepest and darkest secrets. But, I knew that was a large ask.

Owen’s brisk steps increased to a light jog, and soon, he was making the sharp right turn leading up his driveway.  I followed suit; however, I never stumbled on the bumps and cracks that caused Owen’s missteps. He frequently glanced over his left shoulder, as if he was checking for a stalker.  It was as if he had the feeling that someone was watching him. But only I was doing that.

When he reached his front door, Owen fumbled for his keys, as if he were anxious, almost paranoid, if you will.  It was as if he were in a hurry to get away from a stranger trailing his every move. But only I was doing that.

Owen’s shaky hands finally unlocked the door.  He then burst through the threshold, and he slammed, not shut, the door behind him.  I had only made it halfway through myself when he did so, but no worries; I shifted the other half of my body completely through the doorway, unharmed.  Between heavy breaths from either the jog or the paranoia, Owen attempted to calm himself down.

“Okay, you’re alright.  You made it. You’re home, safe and sound.”

Silence must have been his virtue because, again, he stood still in silence, not advancing from his doormat to the rest of his household.  I stood closely behind him, keeping my breathing to a minimum, waiting diligently for his next move.

Owen continued to talk to himself into sanity, making his scattered, panicky brain absolutely sure that no one was walking his same path.  But only I was doing that.

Finally, he mustered up the courage to take a few steps further into his house.  I took the same number of steps behind him, careful not to touch his arm or accidentally step on the heel of his shoe.  I had to be as stealthy as possible, making sure Owen didn’t become more suspicious than he already seemed to be.

Owen’s assuring tone must have done the trick; he began to go about a normal nighttime routine.  Owen cooked himself dinner, and I wondered why he didn’t cook any for me. I sat at the kitchen table and watched him scoop spoonfuls of soup into his mouth.  The steam transferred ghostly from the liquid in his bowl to the smaller amount of liquid in his spoon. I could smell the chicken broth and onions from across the table.  I wished that I could have some.

Owen, when finished with his dinner, cleaned up his bowl in the sink.  I stood and peered over his shoulder as he put a soapy sponge to his bowl and started scrubbing.  He began whistling a tune foreign to my ear, but I found rhythm within it. I bobbed my head and continued observing the circular motions he used to wash his dishes.

Determining that it was time for bed, Owen made his way up the stairs and to his bathroom.  As usual, I followed slowly and patiently behind him. As Owen washed his face and brushed his teeth, I thought of holding back his dark curls so they did not become matted with soap or toothpaste.  However, I refrained to retain my stealth. So, I continued to plot my next move.

Why, all of a sudden, the devious tone?  Why was I plotting my next move? It turns out that you can learn a lot about a person just from bumping into them on the street.  It turns out that watching Owen was not just a stalker-esque tendency. Revenge is sweet, and in the case of this arrogant, inconsiderate low-life, it is well deserved.

Thankfully, Owen decided not to open the shower curtain and relax with warm bath.  I had the chance to do him the favor. I slowly pulled away the curtain and started the water.  Frightened, Owen gasped and jumped out of his shoes, heart surely racing.

Thankfully, Owen couldn’t hear me; this stunt of his made me cackle in laughter.  However, he could feel me. Considering he was haunted by that encounter on the street (and for good reason), he could definitely feel my strong hands drag his lanky figure to the bathtub filled with scalding-hot water.  The rest - well, it’s quite obvious.

It’s only polite to act with common courtesy.  It should be custom. Think about who you may be crossing paths with the next time you bump into someone on the street.  And make sure to pay your respects; you surely don’t want others to be paying their respects to your mourning family.