Thanks. No really; thanks a lot.

Am I the only one that stops to help people they don't know?

I was heading across the parking lot today after finishing up at a medical appointment. The hospital parking lot is really large and it’s a long walk. Just in front of my truck was a woman who was, having just parked, getting out of her own car. As I passed I notice a familiar sickly-sweet smell coming from around the front of her car: antifreeze! I turned to her and asked if she'd noticed any problems with her car; if it had been overheating on her. She told me that it did seem to be overheating so I asked if she’d mind if I checked under the hood to ensure she had enough radiator fluid for her drive home.

She thanked me, popped the hood, and I immediately found a leak on the back of her engine. I couldn’t do anything to fix it of course – not in a parking lot –  but I showed her where the leak was and told her to bring the car to her mechanic as soon as possible. Next I checked the fluid level and saw that it was empty. She had a small bottle of water which we added. She said she would bring out more after her appointment.

I got in my truck to leave, internally congratulating myself for stopping; I could have just passed on and let her fall to her own fate. It felt good to do a kind turn to a fellow human being even if I didn’t know her.  The whole effort took less than two minutes, which was about the time it would have taken her to get into the hospital had I not stopped to help. That‘s important here. It’s important because, as I sat in my truck and watched her walk away towards the hospital, the San Antonio heavens chose that moment to open and release on her an aerial deluge of cold, spring rain.

Debate

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"There I was..." is an opening shibboleth that usually discloses the military experience of a storyteller. It imbues in the knowledgeable reader foreshadowing that the narrative following will entail either great danger or (hopefully) great satire.  I can’t help thinking I should use it here.

Here’s the setup: in 2008 I was enrolled in a college class on Texas politics. Our final project was to be teamed with an opponent to debate a current political issue. We could choose our opponent but the professor chose the subject. My ‘opponent’ was my very good friend and ex-Marine, Tim. Our assignment was evolution versus intelligent design. The problem was, both of us recognized intelligent design for what it really was: creationism. So how could we debate a subject that--to us--only had one side?

Tim and I discussed our dilemma: how was one of us supposed to argue a point of view neither of us believed in? Now Tim is a very easy going guy who rarely gets on a soapbox unless it helps him hang his laundry. On the other hand there’s me. I can get emotional about any subject to the point of (apparent) fanaticism. Apparent is the key word though, because political evangelizing is a form of emotional expurgation for me that leaves me empty and refreshed. My real friends just ignore me while I’m at it.

Since it was impossible for Tim to become passionate about a subject he thoroughly dismissed it was decided that I would get stuck with intelligent design. For my preparation, I read three recent books and countless articles in support of my subject. I believed I saw a pattern emerging and so I went to Tim with an idea.  “Tim,” I said, “the crux of the intelligent design argument seems to be biological subterfuge coupled with vociferous emotional frenzy.” I saw in the arguments employment of just about every form of logical fallacy from begging the question to straw men. I said to Tim, “This is the answer. My side of the argument has to employ the same methods theirs do. In this way I can ‘honestly’ present their ideas as if I solemnly believed them.”

I wrote my argument. The night before our presentation however, I had a crisis of conscience; what if I did a real good job? What if I actually persuaded anyone to my position? Could I live with that? I wasn’t sure I could so I came up with a plan.

The day arrived and Tim and I turned in the written portion of our presentations and asked permission to go last.  When our time came, Tim went first, tediously (as planned) explaining with 35 PowerPoint slides why evolution was the source of life on planet earth. When he was done and the class was soundly asleep, I stepped, not to the podium, but the center of the room. Tim started my slides and after a heartbeat of dramatic pause I began.

Countering the urge to adopt the accent of a Southern Baptist Preacher, I terrorized my audience with science. I marched about the room, gesturing emphatically as I made my most salient points. I shouted, cajoled, ridiculed and (several times) banged on the desks of the students around me as I stalked their hearts and minds as if they were my prey. My voice alternated sotto voce through crescendo as I clearly assayed that science itself proves the existence of an intelligent creator at the heart of all living things.

While all these shenanigans were going on, Tim was quietly circulating around the room a printed sheet of paper. He carefully did not share any with our professor. Written on the papers was a greeting by me followed by a rebuttal of my own arguments, along with a disclosure of my presentation methods. I revealed the fallacy behind each ironclad fact I was purporting to present. I explained to my fellow students that passion in a debate was a not a substitute for reality, and that anytime they heard it, they should immediately suspect the authenticity of the argument. After we concluded, we turned over a copy of the rebuttal to the Professor and filed out of the class with the rest of the students.

In retrospect I guess it was wrong of us to use the debate to propel a completely different agenda on our classmates; why it’s important to suspect any argument regardless of subject, and that charisma and style were not substitutes for facts. But Tim and I were much older than our scholastic brethren who averaged a remarkable 19 or so and we felt that gave us some license.

It was several days before our grades were posted but apparently the instructor felt the same. We got an A.