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Under the Sun Cynthia Oi |
As trust declines,
so does impulse
to do good deedsI WAS trying to find my way out of Ala Moana Center, a befuddling experience ever since the shopping complex tinkered around with its parking lots to the dismay of direction- challenged drivers like me.
I was maneuvering the trusty Toyota through the street-level maze when I encountered a white-haired couple peering at a sign post. They seemed as confused as I was. Loaded down with about a million plastic shopping bags, their sun-flushed faces, sweaty brows and matching shorts, shirts and shoes flagged them as tourists.
As I inched past them, the man leaned toward my open window. He said, "Can you tell us where to catch the bus to Waikiki?"
I thought, "Man, you are so asking the wrong person," but in the spirit of aloha that we locals are supposed to extend to revenue-producing visitors, I scanned the asphalt and concrete landscape for a bus stop.
They'd have to cross Ala Moana Boulevard, I said, pointing to a bus shelter six lanes and a medial strip away. The missus turned to look, then rolled her eyes at her husband. Sighing, she lowered her cargo to the ground, shaking and kneading her hands to restore circulation to her purpled fingers. Trying to keep it together, as men do when confronted with such situations, the husband valiantly continued his quest for information. "What bus should we catch?"
"Jeez, Louise, I don't know," I said, a bit brusquely. His face tightened. I felt bad. I hurried to explain that I don't ride the bus, but I was sure that whatever one stopped at the shelter would take them to Waikiki. He looked unconvinced while his wife's forlorn expression deepened. Feeling even worse, I anxiously blurted more advice: They could ask the bus driver for help, or they could even walk, Waikiki being less than a mile away. Or I could give them a ride.
The word "ride" clicked on a smile from the man, but the woman shook her head. She snagged his elbow and pulled him aside. They conferred, giving me the side eye while I sat there, engine running.
I guess he finally convinced her that I wasn't some serial killer trolling mall parking lots for tourists with shopping bags, and graciously accepted my offer. I pulled up the door locks and told them to pile in, adding that they could put their bags in the trunk if they'd like. The missus whispered, "No." Maybe she thought I was a serial bandit who'd lure people into depositing their mini-packets of Kona-blend coffee, macadamia nuts and faux-shell lei souvenirs into the trunk, then scoot off with their treasures. I said, "Fine."
The drive, excluding the time it took for me to find an exit, took about five minutes. I let them off on the sidewalk in front of their hotel. By then, the woman was smiling, relieved to be in more familiar environs and to have survived an encounter with a stranger.
Later, my best friend cautioned me about offering rides like I did. I could get sued, he said, if there was an accident, or if they smashed their finger in the car door or tripped when they were getting out. If they lost or left something in the car, they could sic the cops on me. If they were crooks themselves, I could get hurt. All sorts of bad things could happen.
I realize this, of course. But sometimes when I'm in my Honolulu neighborhood and I see a person I am not acquainted with, but who I know lives nearby, trudging along hauling groceries, I'd like to give them a lift. I don't, though. On the Big Island, where infrequent Hele-On buses are the only transportation alternatives to private vehicles or walking, I'll often see hitchhikers, but I leave them standing by the road, too.
After all, you can't be too careful nowadays. Or maybe you can.
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976.
She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.