One night, in Siciliy’s …

OUR VIEW: I always feel like somebody’s watching me
June 18, 2013
LSU hospital deal questioned
June 18, 2013
OUR VIEW: I always feel like somebody’s watching me
June 18, 2013
LSU hospital deal questioned
June 18, 2013

My doctor decided a long time ago that I was hopelessly addicted to nicotine.

“We need to work on changing your delivery system,” he said, and we discussed some of the ways to deal with that.


The idea of a “smokeless” cigarette got floated and won my approval.


I invested in one of these little marvels, which has only a simulated burning tip, and releases water vapor that can be inhaled, giving one the impression of smoking as well as fulfilling the need to keep the nicotine level stable.

The experience has been negligible.


For me – a person who honestly doesn’t really have a desire to quit – the nicotine pacifier tends to find more use as just that when I am in places where smoking is not permitted, say, a restaurant.


What I never expected was to see this tool be the catalyst for an experience that rocked the core of my humanity.

It was last Friday, and we had gone to Sicily’s Italian Buffet on Martin Luther King Boulevard, a place with an interesting variety of foods ranging from crawfish bisque to old-fashioned spaghetti and meatballs, at what I would add is a reasonable price.


The reasonable pricing and all-you-can eat atmosphere drew a big crowd that night, ranging from oilfield workers in their jumpsuits to women in dresses as well as blue jeans, men in ties and in tennis shorts, all making up for a marvelous mosaic of life in Terrebonne Parish.


There was also in the restaurant a man in a motorized wheelchair. Clean-shaven and bespectacled, he flitted neatly in and out of the other diners, a nurse occasionally helping him spoon selections onto a plate.

I don’t know the specific nature of his disability, but can tell you that his hands and arms moved with great difficulty, and he could not speak in a manner that most people could understand.


The man in the wheelchair was one more customer until he buzzed over to my table and braked to a halt. He made some sounds and gave what I believed to be a disapproving look, and it didn’t take me long to realize why.


Between my fingers was the faux cigarette, from which I had just inhaled the water vapor.

That is what appeared to be the problem.


“It’s not real,” I said with a smile. “It’s not real smoke.”


The man shook his hand at me again, either not believing or not comprehending.

He caught the attention of a restaurant staff person, pointing as best he could to what he believed was my transgression.


The staffer looked at me, nodded, and then explained to the man in the wheelchair that this was permitted, that it was not a cigarette, and that there was not a problem.


I thought the man was satisfied, though he remained at my table. I attempted a smile. My scheduled dinner companion took leave to use the facilities.

The man in the wheelchair remained, his hands busy with an electronic device that looked like a cell phone.

He was doing something with his hands, something that appeared to be accomplished with great difficulty. I presumed that, convinced the cigarette was not real and therefore not a threat to his health or anyone else’s, he had chosen the aisle area nearest my table to accomplish whatever his task was.

I continued eating my linguine and shot an occasional smile in his direction.

After a good few minutes it appeared he wanted my attention. The phone-like device was in his lap, and he appeared to gesture toward it.

“Do you want me to see it?” I asked.

He gave a constrained nod, and I acquiesced.

On the screen were three words.

“PLEASE FORGIVE ME.”

Feeling that his initial alarm had somehow offended me – which it had not – this man had struggled for many minutes to create the message, using the most effective means of communication at his disposal, itself a miracle of technology that can make cell phones do all kinds of things but still hasn’t cured conditions such as the ones that altered his own capabilities.

I looked him in the eye.

“No need for forgiveness,” I said. “You didn’t know. No problem at all.”

I took his hand in mine as I returned device, and I smiled. His mission accomplished, he scooted away.

As I finished my meal I pondered what had just occurred, and the lessons I could take from it.

How many times have others had a right to expect apologies from us, and how many times have we, in our pride, our arrogance, even our rage, or because of hurt feelings, denied them?

Apologize to you? Huh! Never!

This man had never been asked for one – certainly – and one was not expected by me,

And yet, so highly developed was his own sense of honor, of what is right, that since he felt an apology was due, he wouldn’t leave that table until he expressed a desire for forgiveness.

If he can do that in this situation, then I myself can do a better job both asking for forgiveness when I should, and offering it when due, even if not requested.

It is a lesson that, indeed, I won’t soon forget.