Ideals are great in the abstract. For instance, you and I probably agree that we should and would, by God, help when we find someone in need. When you’re just sailing along, minding your own business, you can feel pretty confident that you will be true to this ideal. Like when you’re on your commute, riding Chicago’s El, the elevated train running into and out of the city.
The riders of the El are a varied lot. Business folk, from mailroom staff to middle management, college kids, domestic workers, shoppers and people with unusual personalities all jostle each other as they sit or stand in the crowded, swaying train cars.
One day, many years ago, I was fortunate enough to find a seat in one such car, heading home, when a group of young men boarded the train, set up a shell game on a piece of cardboard and began to encourage their captive audience to bet on which of three shells covered a pea after the shells had been switched around by the operator. The operator lost bets to his friends more often than not and the game seemed easy to win.
The operator then proceeded to fleece a young woman, probably a secretary or something in a downtown office, out of more than $80. First, she lost the money in her purse and then, as she tried to win it back, she took the $60 that she had hidden in her sock and lost that as well. Probably money she needed for rent or groceries or to pay her babysitter.
The shell game group left the train at the next stop and the young woman cried silently to herself the rest of the way home.
No one stopped the fleecing or offered help of any kind to the woman.
I didn’t help. I was ashamed of myself.
I vowed that if this were ever to happen again, I would stop it, a pretty brave declaration since I had never seen the shell game played before and probably wouldn’t see it played again. I was wrong.
About six months later, another group of men boarded the train in which I rode and set up the game. Okay, I thought to myself: ideals or safety; a promise I had made to myself or the anonymity of the crowd; risking injury or being once again ashamed.
I got up, stood in front of the operator and blocked his view. I encouraged at least three young women who had taken money out of their purses not to get involved. I was jostled by the operator’s friends and got into a loud argument with one of them. No one pulled a knife and no one lost any money. The group left the train empty handed.
No one else on the train looked up or spoke up as this was going on. No one looked at me or said anything to me after the group had left. Someone took my seat.
I had the feeling that everyone on the train was thinking what a fool I had been to get involved. Perhaps I was thinking that as well.
I was ashamed, not for myself this time, but for our entire species. Even this most basic of ideals, to help one another, seems to recede into the distance the more we strive to reach it.