Nov. 28--Unlike Blanche DuBois of "A Streetcar Named Desire," I never depended on the kindness of strangers.
And for a very long time, strangers could not depend on me.
I was, in fact, like most people -- too busy with life, always rushing to get someplace, minding my own business along the way. I saw only what I chose to see and unapologetically turned away from that which did not concern me.
Recently, when the tables were turned and I needed help, strangers showed me the meaning of compassion. On two occasions when I needed it most, the ones who extended a hand were people I did not know.
The first encounter occurred at Midway Airport after I split my pants getting out of the car.
The moment I heard the sound of ripping fabric, I knew I was in trouble. I scanned the parking garage for other early morning travelers. There was no one in sight.
Surveying the damage, I slowly ran my hand across my backside. Nothing there but underwear and skin.
This wasn't just a seam that had come undone. The rip in the fabric had gone all the way south, from the waistband to the calf of my leg.
For most people, this would not have been a major problem. They would have simply gone into their suitcase and changed into another pair of pants.
But I take pride in being a light packer. It gives me joy to brag to co-workers about being on assignment for two weeks along the Mississippi coast after Hurricane Katrina with everything I needed stuffed into a backpack.
So for this overnight trip to Atlanta to attend my godson's wedding, I had packed accordingly -- a silk cocktail dress, strappy sandals, a sheer shawl and a nightgown.
This emergency called for quick thinking.
It was 6 o'clock in the morning, too early for the airport shops to be open. My plane left in an hour, no time to go home and change.
My mind raced with bad ideas. Then I remembered the nightgown.
So in the back seat of my car, I changed clothes, emerging wearing a rumpled light blue sleep dress. Then I set out to convince myself that I didn't look ridiculous, and even if I did, the strangers at the airport wouldn't care enough to notice.
I hadn't counted on meeting Monica.
She noticed my disheveled appearance the moment I stepped onto the shuttle bus she was driving.
"Is everything all right?" she asked.
"Yes, but it's been a rough morning," I told her. "I split my pants in the car."
When we reached the terminal, I waited for the other passengers to disembark before retrieving my suitcase.
Monica gazed at me.
"Honey, you can't get on a plane looking like that," she said. "What else do you have in that suitcase?"
"A shawl," I told her, never once entertaining the idea of putting on the brand new silk cocktail dress I would wear to the wedding.
"Well, let's work with that," she said.
She took the shawl from my suitcase and began trying various looks: Draped around my chest. Draped over a shoulder. Each look was worse than the other.
Then she tied it in a sash around my waist.
Still dissatisfied, she offered the final touch -- the Navy blue hoodie hanging on the back of the driver's seat.
"Here, take this," she said. "I don't need it."
I put on the jacket, thanked her profusely and entered the terminal.
In spite of Monica's best efforts, I still looked horrible. But inside the airport, the strangers lived up to my expectations. No one gave me a second look. I made it to the wedding just fine.
A few weeks later, I had my second encounter with a stranger.
This time, I had gotten off the No. 147 bus on North Michigan Avenue and left my purse on the back row seat.
With no phone, no money and no identification, I felt helpless. My only hope was to cross the street and wait for the bus to complete its southbound route and head north again.
Though I take the 147 every morning, the bus drivers are strangers. I don't talk to them. Often, I don't even look up at them. But this day, I wished I had.
For nearly an hour, I stood at the northbound bus stop, boarding every 147 that came by and asking the driver if I could look for my purse.
Finally, the bus I had ridden arrived, and the driver knew who I was. Maybe he had opened my wallet and looked at my driver's license. Maybe he recognized my look of despair.
"You left your purse on my bus, didn't you?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered, wearily.
At the end of his route, he had gone to the back and found it, just where I'd left it. Dozens of people had come and gone, but no one had touched it. He had stashed it behind his chair.
"Here it is," he said.
Twice, strangers had entered my life when I least expected it. Some would call that luck. I saw it as a wake-up call.
As I walked to work with my newly retrieved purse on my shoulder, I nearly stumbled on a woman and her two children huddled in a doorway under a blanket.
I am sure I had passed them many times before. They were strangers I'd never noticed.
But this time, I chose to see them.
I stopped and looked into the eyes of the young boy. Then I dug into my purse and gave him all the money I had.
Use this, I said, to buy food for your family.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered softly. "Thank you."
For the first time in a very long while, I looked at a stranger and smiled.
And it felt good.
Maybe Blanche DuBois was more insightful than Tennessee Williams led us to believe.
dglanton@tribune.com
