A Long-Ago Hero

Most evenings I make it a point to go outside for a few minutes just to experience the world in its darkness. I’ll gaze up into the vast night sky as I listen to the crickets, or the sound of the wind rushing through the nearby trees. For those few moments almost anything might go through my mind. It could be something philosophical, or silly, or it might be a memory from long ago. Last night a personal hero came to mind.

Seventeen years ago, when I was about six years old, I had a neighbor-friend named Dawn who was my age. One Saturday there was a dance recital down at the local recreation center. Dawn, her big sister, and I decided we wanted to go. My mother would not have allowed me to go if not for Dawn’s big sister escorting us. She was all of ten years old.

My mother gave me $.75 to get something to eat from a vending machine, should I get hungry. I remember I became hungry when I walked by the snack machine on the way to the auditorium and got a look at a bag of Fritos sitting there begging to be purchased. But I could not buy the Fritos then and there. We had to first get our seats in the auditorium.

About a half hour into the program there was an intermission. I immediately climbed out of my seat and trekked out to the vending area and that bag of Fritos. I remember reaching up and dropping the three quarters into the machine and pushing the button for the Fritos, but nothing happened. No Fritos, not a murmur from the machine. I recall trying all the buttons and none of them worked. Finally I pushed the COIN RETURN button, but still nothing happened. I stepped back from the machine and glared at it in frustration.

A few seconds later a boy scurried up to the vending machine. From the knees down he was damp, as though he had been recently wading, shoes and all. Latched onto his shirt were about a half dozen brown burrs. To a six year-old girl, the boy was actually a little scary.

Out of the boy’s pocket emerged a little squeeze-open change purse, and from the change purse came a handful of change. He slipped some coins into the machine and pushed a button for a candy bar. Not only did he get the candy bar, but he received an extra $.75 in change. Naturally I knew the $.75 was mine, or at least it had once been mine, but the boy was far too imposing for me to intercede, so I remained silent.

The boy gleefully hollered, “I’m rich!” and dropped the three quarters into his change purse. He then gave me a quick glance and happily pranced away. Both Frito-less and moneyless, I dejectedly turned to wander back to the auditorium. But before I could travel more than a few steps, the boy had returned. He gently took a hold of my arm, and carefully turned me around. He asked me if I had lost $.75 cents in the vending machine. My eyes lit-up with joy and I happily nodded.

The boy pulled the coin holder from his pocket, opened it, and stared down at the contents; four quarters, two pennies, and one safety pin, as best I recall. He shook his head as he said, “Well here’s the trouble; one of the quarters was a Canadian quarter. They won’t work in candy machines. They’re a different size or something.”

The boy extracted from the coin holder three American quarters. He stepped to the machine and dropped the money into the coin slot. “Okay, go ahead and choose what you want,” he instructed. I swiftly poked the button for the Fritos. Sure enough, the machine began to hum as the shiny yellow and red bag started to march forward, finally falling down behind the PUSH plate at the bottom of the machine.

“There you go, little girl,” chirped the boy. He then turned and hurried away.     

I didn’t think much about the boy’s gesture for a few days, perhaps a few weeks, but it just wouldn’t leave my mind. He had sacrificed his bit of wealth for no other reason than to do the right thing.

Over the months, and years, I came to understand and appreciate that. When I was in the 5^th or 6^th grade I had reason to mention the boy’s deed in front of the class. I said that it was a selfless act and I admired the boy who did it, even though I did not know his name, and never saw him again. Some of the kids laughed, but I didn’t care. He wasn’t their hero, he was mine.

Now over seventeen years have passed and I still think about that boy on occasion. In fact, one such occasion was last night, when I was out looking up into the night sky with no one there but me, and a memory of my young hero from long ago.