Beach Ball

INTRODUCTION:
Today, I noticed that someone at an In & Out place had a handle that gave the news that this person's dad had a lump, so I became concerned and decided to click on the portfolio icon beside the handle.

I was taken to the portfolio page of a 20 year old English writer named Rhian.

Upon reading

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I was inspired to get something I'd written for the now nonexistent WrittenByMe, which I had been storing in my online diary, so here it is:

BEACH BALL

Last summer, I was taking a roundabout scenic route on my way to Ontario and was driving through an older suburb of Toledo, Ohio.


When I was stopped at this intersection, I noticed a small beach ball rolling out into the middle of the street and into the path of oncoming traffic.


One of the cars hit it, causing it to explode with a big pop.


I wasn't sure just what sort of circumstances had brought this cute, little (not quite the size of a basketball with the same color and design of your average beach ball) ball out into the center of the street.


Had it accidentally gotten away from one or more kids playing with it?


If this were so, there was probably a brokenhearted, little kid crying somewhere, because beach balls have a personality of sorts, and its owner probably felt as if he/she had just lost his/her best friend--or, at least, his/her lovey.


More than likely, though, this ball had been rolled out there intentionally just for the purpose of popping it. After all, this was The Fourth Of July.


If this were the case, it was probably done by an older bunch of kids--who might even have bought several and were having fun rolling them out into oncoming traffic.


Being the curious person I was, I wondered what the beach ball would look like now.


Would it have busted into a whole bunch of little pieces like a balloon would have if it had met the same fate? Or would it be pretty much together?


Anyway, I looked at where the beach ball had met its fate and saw what looked like an intact-but-deflated beach ball.


Something about that shriveled up spot of color on the dark city street looked rather cute and amusing to me--made me giggle and exclaim to myself, "Awlllllllllll. . .how cuuuuuuute!!!"


Several days later, I arrived back in Detroit from Ontario.


I'd had a rough night.


Somehow--after leaving the Ingersoll area later than I'd expected to--I'd gotten on the wrong road during a rainstorm, had gone around in circles a few times, had driven all night, and was now worn out.


On top of that, I had PMS.


I was in Detroit in heavy traffic in a deteriorating part of the city wishing that I were already in the area of Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.


Since I was wanting to turn onto a street heading west, I was in the farthest lane left of northbound traffic.


Ahead of me, I saw a diminutive figure standing on the island--obviously, wanting to continue crossing to the other side, having already made it halfway there.


I came to a stop to let him across, and he gave me a grateful look and started to go across--only for both of us to find out that nobody else was stopping and that the driver of the car behind me seemed more than a little angry that I'd stopped to hold up traffic.


The man stepped back up on the island, and I had no other choice but to keep moving.


But I'd gotten a fairly good look at him.


He was a frail-looking Black man of small stature wearing tattered clothing who could have been anywhere from his mid-thirties up to about sixty. His face showed signs of wear and tear, and his eyes spoke volumes. I could see so much pain in those eyes--and, yet, so much dignity and determination, too.


He was a person who had been to rock-bottom at one time--or pretty close, at least--and had risen somewhat above that point but still had a long ways to go. Something in his face told me that there was still a flicker of hope there--a hope that went beyond simply wanting to get to the other side of the street.


All at once, I began to think of that tiny beach ball in relation to this tiny man and his attempts to cross the wide street.


A drama played out in my mind where I saw a car hitting him without even bothering to stop, his body making a big pop, and then deflating to where it would look like him except for being flat. And the cars would just keep on passing by without anyone even giving him much notice.


Of course, I knew that he would have been noticed--and, more likely than not, stopped for--had he been run over. And, depending on how he was hit, he might have even survived. Furthermore, he wouldn't have looked anywhere as "cute" and "amusing" as that deflated beach ball.


My vision of him wasn't literal. It was symbolic--symbolic of a frail, gentle human being ending up quietly slipping through the cracks of humanity.


If he were to die that night as he slept curled up in a ball under a bridge or in an alley beside the garbage cans from where his last meal had come from, how many people would miss him the next day?


When I'm in my PMS stage, my emotions often work overtime--but it was much more than the PMS which ended up reducing me to tears that afternoon.