Fresno Bee, CA
Nov 15 2008

Running on empty in the mean streets

By Armen D. Bacon
11/15/08 00:00:00

My car was running on fumes. I had been running on empty myself. Work
demands, life challenges and simply not enough hours in the day had
siphoned me dry. I was out of sync with the universe and like a
stranger in my own skin. But today was not the day to stop and figure
out why. I needed gas. Pronto.

I headed toward the freeway, well aware that stopping for gas in south
Fresno might not be the wisest thing to do. What had once been my
stomping ground was now often called seedy and unsafe — at least for
a woman traveling solo.

A cop once pulled me over, imploring me to lock my car doors and put
my purse on the floorboard, out of sight, instead of on the seat. His
stern reprimand reminded me of my father and I never forgot the
concerned, parental look in his eyes.

The neighborhood has changed in four decades. But today I was in such
a rush that when I pulled into the station, I ignored the policeman’s
instructions. I left my keys in the car, purse on the seat and started
pumping gas. I was not accustomed to looking over my shoulder. After
all, this was my community. My Fresno. And besides, the gas station is
across the street from Holy Trinity Armenian Apostolic Church. My
church.

I barely noticed the man next to the station’s façade. But then I took
a glimpse. He was wearing a baseball cap, hands tucked deep into his
pockets. His appearance was rugged and slightly disheveled, but I
didn’t give him a second thought.

Over the years, my instincts had been finely tuned. As a college
student, I ventured off alone to Europe. I was mugged and robbed on a
night train between France and Italy. Later I wandered into a pair of
forbidden alleys while exploring the streets of Morocco. Although I
had lived to talk about these adventures, they definitely sharpened my
intuitive senses. If danger was looming, I generally got a signal. But
there was no reason to worry here. After all, I was in my own
backyard.

I continued to pump gas into my thirsty vehicle, the only thing
separating me from the stranger. I noticed him walking toward me. The
next thing I heard was my name. I had never seen him before. Suddenly
I felt as though I had been cast in an episode of "Twilight Zone." Who
was this man?

"Hey, I know you," he said, repeating my name. Something in his tone
made me uneasy, but he began smooth-talking me. He knew I was a
writer. I blushed as he described one of my essays, complimenting me
to high heaven for my literary prowess. I lowered my guard and
extended a hand. It seemed he was not someone to fear — he was a
loyal fan. Well, at least a fan.

His appearance indicated he was Armenian. He confirmed his roots and
introduced himself.

Although the name didn’t ring a bell, I mentally placed him in the
category of extended family. That’s what we do in the Armenian
culture. If your name ends in "-ian," you are considered family. It’s
an Armenian thing.

The Armenian mother in me had already taken over and I was suddenly
more worried about his safety and well-being than the fact that my
purse was wide open and in full view on the front seat. He told me he
had a flat tire and had left his wallet at home. Might I spare $8 so
he could fix the tire?

Before he could finish, I broke in, insistent that he allow me to come
to his rescue. Reaching for my wallet, I heard him fall all over
himself with gratitude as he reiterated how embarrassed and humiliated
he was to ask me for $12. His words puzzled me. Had I misunderstood
him, or did the amount mysteriously grow by four dollars? I started
feeling as though the lines were blurring between my heroic gesture
and the possibility I was falling prey to a scam. But after all, he
was Armenian, and I have done far more for complete strangers.

Finally, I looked around and realized there was no flat-tired vehicle
in sight. Nonetheless, I opened my wallet and handed him the $12. He
thanked me profusely and stepped aside, clever enough not to overstay
his welcome.

I couldn’t help but watch him through my rear view mirror. He was
walking away from the gas station, head solemnly pointed down, hands
back inside his pockets, and all of a sudden, he appeared full of
sorrow and shame. There was no car. No flat tire. We are a very proud
people. I think he knew that I knew.

His gait became brisk. I turned my car around, facing in his direction
and just gazed at him as he fled on foot, becoming smaller into the
distance. A flood of emotions consumed me: sadness, anger, pity,
rage. I wondered how he would spend the money.

(Weeks later I learned through the Armenian grapevine that he was a
rather hopeless and habitual gambler. Homeless and living on the
streets. Estranged from his family. I imagined their pain and anguish,
their sense of loss and betrayal. Armenian sons are precious family
members, right up there with royalty.)

Then his footsteps stopped abruptly. He turned around, most certainly
not expecting to see my car facing in his direction. Almost in slow
motion, our eyes locked. He turned around, this time for good and just
kept walking.

On an otherwise typical Fresno day, I stopped for gas and paid an
extra $12 to fill up my tank. In the course of doing so, I had a
head-on collision with a complete stranger who thought he knew me. In
the end, the only things we had in common were our Armenian roots and
the fact that earlier in the day, we had both been running on empty.

Armen D. Bacon is senior director for communications and public
relations for the Fresno County Office of Education.