When a small act of kindness put me in a jam

by Pringle Franklin

The whole series of events started because I broke a $50 bill for a stranger at a hair salon in Charleston. After the cash exchange, a single Grant sat in my wallet instead of an assortment of smaller denominations. I didn’t give it another thought until several days later, when I could not pay for a seat on a regional bus in Medford, Oregon.

After landing at the airport, I had considered taking an Uber over to my destination, but it was a pricey, 40-minute ride. At $2, the bus ticket seemed like a bargain. I was pleased with my plan, and feeling proud of my adventurous spirit, until….

“I can’t change that $50,” the bus driver said. “Have you got anything smaller?”

As I checked my purse, I told him that I had flown in from South Carolina to attend the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. And I was so excited to be there….until I discovered that, besides the Grant, I had only a few random coins totaling 65 cents.

“May I pay with a credit card?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry, we only take cash.”

If I had taken an Uber….

It was early June, 2019. My beloved friend, Janet, was driving up from California several hours later. Before she showed up, I needed to get over to Ashland and check into our rental house. Already I had lost 30 minutes at the bus stop, only to be denied a seat. If I had taken an Uber, I would probably be there by now, unwinding after my long trip. I must have looked close to despair, because the next thing I knew, the driver handed me a small, rectangular card.

A ticket!

“It’s okay,” he said. “I paid your fare.”

“Really?” A feeling of immense relief flooded my body.

He smiled. “Welcome to Oregon.”

“Thank you—that was so nice.”

The driver nodded. Then in a neighborly fashion, he explained that I would need to change buses at the midway station. He rattled off information about which bus number to catch, adding that I would have to be quick. There would be only a three-minute window to make the transfer.

Before long, we had arrived at my dis-embarkment stop. The driver thoughtfully turned around and pointed me in the right direction. My next bus was parked directly in front of us. I hoofed over there with my bags. However, the whole scene soon repeated itself.  The new driver said that I needed to buy a ticket to complete the trip to Ashland from wherever-I-was-now. Naturally, when I tried to pay with the $50, she could not break it. She told me to get off the bus and stand in a line at a nearby ticket window.

“We can’t wait for you,” she said. “This bus is about to pull out.”

“When will the next bus get here?”

She shrugged. “Usually, it’s about every 30 minutes. But we’re one driver short today, so the wait might be longer.”

Delayed between towns

I was regretting my decision to be frugal. A nice gentleman at the airport’s Information Desk had highly recommended the local bus system as safe, reliable, and far more economical than hiring a driver. Now I was about to be delayed between towns, with my large suitcase and carry-on bag in tow. I was ready to take off my shoes and kick back on the the large, sun-splashed deck of the rental house.

Instead, my travel time was beginning to feel endless as I headed toward the ticket line.

“Lady, where are you going?” I looked over my shoulder to see who was calling after me. The first bus driver had opened the door of his bus and was leaning out. “You’ll miss your bus!”

I looked sheepishly at him. “I have to buy another ticket, and I don’t have the right amount.”

“No, I paid for your transfer!” he said. “That ticket will take you all the way to Ashland. Now get on that bus before it leaves.”

Then he jumped off his bus and race-walked over to have a word with the other bus driver. Soon he’d straightened everything out. He waved me on board.

Smiling with relief, I thanked him profusely and re-dragged myself and my suitcase up the steps of the second bus. The lady driver didn’t pay any attention to me, as if she wanted no part in this drama. As I settled into my seat, I felt my heart tingle with warmth. The first driver’s concern for a struggling traveler filled me with gratitude.

Reflections on another life, in Paris

As my bus pulled out and bumped along, I reflected on when we had lived in Paris, France from 2014-2016. At first, every little thing had been so confusing, from mailing a package to avoiding eye contact with the French on the streets, bus, or Metro; I had played the role of the bumbling foreigner much of our first year. Gradually I learned how to negotiate the routine Parisian systems. Afterwards, I looked for opportunities to rescue newcomers. I’d find them all over the city with that anxious look, dragging roller bags and acting like desperate fools. They weren’t fools: they just needed someone to notice that they needed help and explain a few basics in English.

 This is how you operate an intercom system to access the lobby of your Airbnb. This is the wrong side of the Metro platform if you’re trying to get to the Opera. This is where your hotel is located, the one whose street name your forgot after you drank too much red wine and had a fight with your husband.

Back in Oregon, I felt like I was revisiting a familiar script but changing roles. Could the Golden Rule be boomeranging back to me? As we have done unto others, will it be done unto us? I suspect that Jesus wasn’t merely preaching when he taught this maxim. He was explaining how the Universe literally works. I regret the many times when I have been too busy or selfish to extend a listening ear or a helping hand. The bus driver’s good deed still sticks in my mind, a reminder of what brotherly love looks like and of what happens when we plant seeds of kindness.