penfield | Boy Scouts and Barn Doors

I'm no boy scout, but like to think of myself as a decent, upstanding, four-square kind of guy. I say "bless you" to strangers when they sneeze. When I decline to give money to a panhandler, I feel genuine guilt about it afterwards. I have never actually helped an old lady across the street, but I'd like to think that I would if I wasn't in a hurry to get somewhere.

Take this morning, for example. My daily commute was rudely interrupted by some kind of disruption at Foggy Bottom station that forced my train to offload at Arlington Cemetery; after failing to squeeze on to either of the subsequent two Blue Line trains – both of which were puny little four-car numbers barely big enough to adequately transport a little league team – I finally boarded a train that puttered along its route as if it were being dragged by sled dogs.

(Initial announcements stated that the snafu was the result of a sick passenger somewhere in the Metro system. This is just vague enough to placate people, though I wonder just what kind of illness is severe enough to make 1,000 people late for work? Are we talking about explosive vomiting that requires a comprehensive hose-down of the train car? Some kind of extremely virulent disease that mandates a complete biohazard team? A bacterial strain so exotic that the Discovery Channel has to come down and do a documentary on it? Or is it all just bullshit, and some train operator can't find his keys?)

Anyway, midway through the interminably long ride into town, I gave up my hard-earned seat to a silver-haired woman who looked like she was going to die that afternoon. She was part of a large tour group of elderly individuals wearing various funny hats.

I was happy to give up my seat. It made me feel good about myself, a real Good Samaritan. She genuinely seemed to appreciate it, too. "Thank you, young man," she said, in a voice like a broken clarinet.

So I stood by the door, flipping through my newspaper, for a few stops. Near the end of my trip, I noticed an old man – possibly the old lady's husband – sitting in his own seat, with his fly wide open. And I mean wide open – he could have fit his leg through there. I found myself staring at it, this yawning chasm of embarrassment, shouting loudly to the world, "open for business!" The pants were of such distinctive Old Man quality – double-knit polyester, in pool-table green – that I wondered if they had been passed down from grandfather to grandfather. Ever so briefly, my mind wandered as I considered how much life experience had passed through that very portal.

I felt sorry for him. This man, once proud and strong, probably a veteran, was now slumped in an orange Metro seat, with his old-man pants pulled up over his belly button and the tails of his white shirt flapping through his gaping zipper. His eyes, small and clear like water droplets, wandered aimlessly underneath a Hawaiian-style baseball cap. I wondered if he still had all his wits about him. Are his hands too shaky or palsied to zipper his own fly? Did he even dress himself? Is this someone else's fault? This vision represented all that is sad and pathetic about our "greatest generation."

Still in Good Samaritan mode, I collected myself and silently strategized how to help this poor man. My more barbaric brethren notwithstanding, I believe that it is part of the Male Code to subtly and quietly inform the affected individual that his zipper is down, so that he can correct it with all possible haste.

But I was flummoxed. His eyes refused to focus on me or anything else, and any overt gesticulations on my part would have been counter-productive. Even if I had been able to get his attention, what, exactly, was I supposed to do? Point at my own zipper? Would he have interpreted this as some kind of lewd gesture or come-on? Should I have pointed at his zipper region? Would he have assumed this was act of mockery or derision? Should I have mouthed or whispered "XYZ" – universal code for "Examine Your Zipper"? Do old people know about "XYZ," or is it a too-modern idiom? Is it possible that the open fly is a new fashion throughout the nursing home community, signifying who among the men are still bringing the ol' fastball?

Alas, my stop came too soon and I had to leave before I could divine an appropriate solution. I assume he's still out there, at the Smithsonian, probably, taking in the sights of our nation's capitol with his shirttails flapping in the breeze. Wherever you are, sir, I am sorry I couldn't help you. But I thank you for your service to our country, and I salute you for your contributions.

Don't worry about saluting back. Please.