Will you give me another hug?

In the twilight zone between the time when I place my head on my pillow and the time when I finally reach gagaland a LOT of thoughts flow through my mind. These thoughts are random and take no particular order. For example, “n items can be arranged in n factorial ways,” or “2 is the only even prime number,” [thank you GMAT] or my thoughts on the current state of the world; or recollecting something particularly funny that I read or came across; or mentally practicing my taekwondo forms; and so-on-and-so-forth. Well, ever since my trip to St. Louis two weeks ago (more of that in a later post) NOT A DAY GOES BY when I haven’t thought of the woman whose dog died.

I was walking down Delmar Avenue in St Louis (which is close to the campus of Washington University and is filled with lots of interesting restaurants and non-chain shops) when I felt a hand on my arm. My gut reaction, which I’m very ashamed of in hindsight - - and blame on years of city-living -- was to step back, to take my hands out of my pocket, and to check that my wallet was still in my back pocket.

“Will you please listen to me?” asked a young woman - - who looked like she was in her late-twenties or early thirties, but which may not be the case since I’m really bad at estimating age -- as she grabbed my arm again .

“Sure” I said, still startled and slightly suspicious and wondering if she was trying to distract me while her partner was going to try to separate me from my meagre belongings.

She then held my arm for about 1 minute without saying a word and then said

“You’re NOT listening. LISTEN to me.”

“But you’re not saying anything!” I said, suddenly aware that there was alcohol on her breath.

“My dog died this morning” she said.

“My little dog died this morning, and I’ve been drinking ever since then. I just want to get drunk and forget about everything else.”

This brought back the pain that I felt, at 20, when my Cleo was run over by a truck. I was absolutely shattered and very upset.

I tried my best to console her and talked about how I felt when I heard about Cleo. It was only then that I realized how uncoordinated she was and that her speech was slurring. Suddenly she said “Will you give me another hug?”

I did and she then ran into a bus that had pulled-up along the pavement.

Her last words were “I’ve got to get home now” leaving me standing on the pavement trying to come to grips with what had just transpired.

Why does this conversation and series of events play through my mind every single night? Is it the sense that I couldn’t really console someone when she needed to be consoled? Is it the realization that - - despite the superficial congeniality - -it’s difficult to form deep connections in America (more on this topic later) and so a young woman has to drink to forget her problems and ask a stranger on the road for a hug? Or is it the sheer randomness of the event? Or is it embarrassment at the suspicion with which I initially greeted her? Or is it that I should have really tried much harder to make her feel better. Or is it the feeling that her pain and sorrow was palpably real and strong and that I was powerless to stop it?

I don’t know. But this incident plays through my head EVERY night.