We all carry internal armor, especially after we’ve been burned. Mine had a fresh coat of skepticism baked on by a recent scam that left me a little too quick to judge and a little too ready to mutter, “Here we go again! What, do I have a sign on me?”
It was late afternoon, just before a 4:00 scheduled call. I stepped out of the house, wireless earbuds dialing in to the call, and started my usual descent down toward the sport-fishing docks in Point Loma. The early minutes of the call were just standard corporate preamble – pleasantries, routine updates, background noise.
Then reality interrupted.
A car pulled over abruptly to the side of the road right in front of me. The woman inside already had her window rolled down. She was crying profusely, tears streaming down her face, and she called out, “Will you help me?”
I waved my phone instinctively, signaling that I was on a call, but she just repeated it, her voice cracking with pure desperation: “Will you help me, please?”
Weighing the invisible committee on my call against a human being unraveling five feet away from me, the choice made itself. I told her, “Yeah. Just pull down and park against that curb ahead, and I’ll meet you there.”
I walked down, completely oblivious for a second to whether my colleagues on the call could hear the exchange, entirely focused on what I assumed was coming next: She’s going to ask me for money. Part of me felt cynical. Part of me felt guarded.
She rolled her window down further. She was an absolute wreck, bawling openly. “Is there any way you can help?” she pleaded.
I looked at her, checked my pockets, and realized the truth. “Ma’am,” I said, “I just took off for a walk. I only have ten dollars. That’s all the cash I have, but I’ll give it to you. And I honestly feel bad it’s not more.”
Her face shifted from panic to profound relief. “At least I’m going to get enough gas to get home,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“God bless you,” I told her.
“God bless you too,” she said. Before she drove off, I asked her name. She wiped her eyes and said, “Susie.”
“Hi Susie,” I replied, “I’m Anthony. Nice to meet you.” And she just poured out another wave of gratitude.
As she drove off, a heavy wave of guilt washed over me. I felt terrible for my initial mental snarkiness – for defaulting to suspicion just because I’d been stung in the past.
Here was a woman whose reality was raw, immediate, and entirely stripped of pretense. She hadn’t asked for a handout; she had asked for help. I walked away calling it the Sweet Susie Effect – a swift, humbling reminder that the universe has a funny way of stripping away our armor when we need it most. I needed that humbling, and I was grateful for the experience, silently asking for a little grace for my own cynicism.
The Sequel I Didn’t Expect
The very next morning, life decided to test whether the lesson had actually stuck.
I headed out in the opposite direction, walking down toward Ocean Beach. As I passed a local bus stop, my stride slowed to a dead halt. There, sitting on the bench, was another woman crying profusely.
My immediate internal reaction? Oh, my God. Is her name Susie? If it is, I am going to lose it.
I stood there for a second, caught between profound empathy and absolute comic disbelief. But then reality checked me again in a very practical way: my pockets were empty. The last ten-dollar bill I’d had went to Sweet Susie the afternoon before.
Realizing I couldn’t offer a thing, I thought to myself, I better go down to the ATM and get some cash before I even think about addressing this new Sweet Susie.
So I walked down to the nearest ATM on Newport, pulled out some cash, and walked back up the block with a renewed sense of purpose.
Except, when I arrived back at the bus stop, the scene had entirely transformed. The tears were gone; she sat composed, quiet, a whole different person in the morning light.
I didn’t ask her if her name was Susie. In fact, I didn’t engage with her at all other than saying good morning. I just kept walking, letting her have her space.
What the Streets Teach Us
Looking back on those two days, I had to smile at the irony. Two days, two women in distress on the pavement, two stark reminders of how quickly we encounter human vulnerability the moment we step outside our secure little bubbles.
Do I love the feeling of being tested like that? Not always. It’s uncomfortable to confront our own snap judgments, our conditioned distrust, and our empty pockets. But maybe that’s the point.
We walk through life wrapped in our routines, our conference calls, and our private grievances. And every so often, the universe stops us mid-stride, introduces us to a Susie, and asks a very simple question:
What will you do the next time someone – a person you love, or a total stranger – calls out and asks for help?
