Celes's Yessir

This is a repost dating to last year, but a memory and piece I'm also fond of, with slight edits. I thought, being the first (and for a long time, only) blog I've done, I'd give it some light. Enjoy:

Walking through Croydon I came across something somewhat surprising, and it's been drifting my mind since.

Approaching JJB Sports, or possibly some other cheap, sports-themed rip-off (it escapes me), a black male of twenty or so darted from the narrow entrance with a seemingly filled silver rag resting under his armpit, held like some sort of rugby ball. In a few seconds, three maybe, he had galloped past me. In his stride through the doorway, however, he trod one little girl to the floor; stamping her straight into the dirt and taking no second look as his balance returned. And then he was gone.

What I found interesting was not in the male's blatant thievery, nor in the bravery of the tearless six year old as she rose from the ground: it was in me. I stood still. Useless. I made no move, no courageous attempt of a trip (though I wasn't breaking the norm) and, well, I felt disappointed thinking it over. Almost instantly I was reminded of Peter Parker's horrific mistake of letting the thief slide past him in Spider-Man's glossy representation, ultimately leading to the death of Uncle Ben. Now, although his choices were out of anger and revenge, and the likelihood of a similar Hollywood dramatised event occurring are near to nothing, it made me think.

I started running the situation over again, imagining all of the differing ways I could (and have should) handled the situation, and the consequences of these heroic actions. Considering the man charged within a metre of my standing, I could have easily shoulder blocked him, possibly diving towards his kneecaps and providing the thief a few seconds of flight before his face grazed the floor. The mother of the wounded would scurry towards me, after lifting her daughter from the floor, and praise me for my heroic deeds. Or, in the case of my delayed response, I dreamt the idea of dropping the games currently dangling from my hands and launching after the speeding criminal. Despite the thought of me running after this extremely fast male being laughable, I would speed after him. Dodging and darting through the crowds of people (which are now, for some odd reason, densely populating the area) and weaving my way towards the end of the main road where he would be forced to turn. In a climatic finish to a dramatic chase, I would spring to the air and tackle him to the ground, leaving him defeated. There would be cheers and claps. And smiles.

Alas I did not. My solutions, albeit exaggerated and unrealistic, made no occurrence. I simply stood and watched -- pathetic. I wish I did. I'm unsure as to whether, in a perfect world, if I did make a bold attempt at justice, my decisions would be made for the fame or for what I believed was right (though I should hope it was the latter) but I'm certain I should have done something; even a failed attempt would be respectable, but not a choice to stop and stare.

The mother swore, the girl brushed her shirt and we walked on. It was a normal day. Humans made their usual, righteous decisions. We all walked on.