Back in January, 1978, I was in the middle of a one year sabbatical from law school. I took the year off because I was a young man who had a lot of debts, who needed to get them out of my life and off my mind, so that I could pay more attention to law work. I had the opportunity to work two good jobs at once, to pay off my debts within the year. I did so. And I thereafter aced the rest of law school and scored second highest in my class' bar exams.
One of the jobs, during my one year sabbatical, was a second-shift job at what is now called SmithKline Beecham Corporation, at their corporate headquarters at 15th and Spring Garden Streets in Philadelphia. I was a pharmaceutical operator -- a "drug cook" -- engaged in the manufacture of vast quantities of over-the-counter drugs.
On January 15, 1978, it was a cold, wet night as I came home to my apartment from my second shift job at SmithKline. I stopped by the Inquirer building on my way down 15th Street toward Market at 12:30 a.m. and purchased the earliest edition of the following morning's Inquirer off the loading docks in the back of the building, made my way down to the eastbound side of the subway station at 15th and Market Streets, and sat down on a subway station bench, and read my Inquirer as I waited for a train. When I did that, there were about 20 other second shift workers standing or sitting around me, in the station.
Several minutes later, as I sat deeply absorbed in my reading, a wave of the worst kind of smell of human crap and pee filled the space between my newspaper and my face. I thought, "What the heck ???!!!"
I put down my paper, and to my horror, sitting on the bench to my right, was the world famous bag lady, Duck Lady, who was known for walking around the streets of Philadelphia quacking, quacking, quacking like a duck, as she begged. But on this occasion, she was sitting beside me, and I was smelling her smell of crap and pee. It made me feel like I was standing in a toilet bowl after someone used it but didn't flush it.
At first I looked around in a panic for a means of escape. I saw that everyone who had been standing around us on the subway platform several minutes before had retreated to the opposite end of the subway platform, and they were all down there, staring up at us, to see what I would do.
That woke me up. That abandonment of Duck Lady as a monster all should run from, by those people on the subway platform, shocked me. I thought to myself, "I am not going to subject this lady to the indignity of treating her like a monster!" So, I forced myself to sit there and breathe her smell of crap and pee.
As I did so, I saw that in that freezing cold wet subway platform, Duck Lady was only wearing a thin damp nightie and slippers, as she convulsed involuntarily on the bench beside me -- undoubtedly due to Tourette's Syndrome -- quacking, quacking, quacking.
Did I think of taking off my warm winter coat and giving it to her?
No.
As she quacked, Duck Lady took off one of her slippers and held it out toward me. I saw some crumpled dollar bills in it. I thought, "It's her 'bank'! She's begging!"
I took out my wallet and gave her the cash that was in it. I placed it in her cold, wet slipper. Big deal, right?
And how did Duck Lady respond?
In her personal cloud of crap and pee smell, she stopped quacking for a few seconds, and said a prayer for me. She said, "May our Blessed Mother watch over you!"
Then, as she relaxed and put her slipper back on her foot, she resumed her relentless quacking, quacking, quacking.
At that moment, a train came along, and I was happy to escape to it. As the doors closed, I saw her in her wet nightie, and I thought, "Why didn't I give her my coat?"
Answer: Because I preferred myself too much.
Lesson to my Catholic brethren: Give them the coat off your back.
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