I like to help people. Actually, I like to help people as long as it isn’t an inconvenience. If someone comes to me with a difficulty, I’ll assist, figuring a solution, but I tell them, “My advice will be directly related to how your problem affects me.”

It’s not that I’m uncaring and shallow; wait, yes, it is.

Things seem to happen when they happen and it’s generally at the most inopportune time. Last summer, during a terrible rainstorm, I came around a corner on a city street, and there was an older gentleman, hunched over, standing in my lane holding onto a walker. I slowed, eyeing him intently, then waved him across, but he didn’t move.

Since the weather was so dismal, I pulled up, rolled my window down and asked if he’d like to get in. He gave a slight nod … or I thought he did. I made a U-turn and came back, putting my car close beside him. Blocking traffic, I got out, opened the door and waited; but, instead of getting in, he stood there.

I smiled, gently took his arm and propelled him into my vehicle’s front seat, then folded his walker and carefully put it in the back. Now that we were out of the downpour, I asked him where he’d like to go. He remained silent, and simply pointed.

I looked to where he was indicating and was bewildered. Turning back to him, incredulously, I asked, “Right here, right here by us, across the street?” He nodded and very softly, so I almost couldn’t hear him, he whispered, “Yes.”

So away we went — all 40 feet. I parked, retrieved his walker and, feeling like his chauffeur — not to mention personal valet — I opened his door and helped him out. He didn’t say anything, just slowly disappeared into the building. I didn’t know him, and I hope he didn’t know me, either.

I also hope he didn’t tell someone to call the police since he’d been kidnapped and held in false imprisonment by someone who wasn’t quite right. We know she’s not quite right because her offspring tell anyone who’ll listen and, after 18 years with her, they’d know.

If a lawman comes to my door, I’ll beg for mercy and tell the authorities that I didn’t mean to do good. It’s not like me, and it was a fluke. I think any judge who did a background check on me would agree I’m an evildoer and that my horns hold my halo up.

I’d explain that I tried to be nice just this once, but it’s obviously not in me. I’d say that I know quite a few people who would happily vouch against me, and I’ll ask if I can call a handful. Then, as I’m locked up, I’ll ask for bread and water. That’s all, as I gaze through the bars of the tiny window. Just bread and water and maybe a sparrow to bring comfort in the darkest of times.

I’ve learned my lesson, though. A few weeks back, we drove by the lake, looking for a good spot to stop and have a picnic. As Gar pulled up by the shore, I spied a guy fishing in his whitey-tighties. I turned to Gar and, thinking I was mistaken, asked, “Am I missing something or is that guy in his underwear?”

Gar looked in the direction I was pointing and raising his eyebrows, he showed his teeth in a grimace. I wasn’t seeing things. We watched for a minute, dumbfounded. The bugs were thick, and the guy was diligently swatting at them, but seemed to be more concerned and frustrated with his struggle over a hook that had apparently caught in some rocks.

He pulled and jerked and nearly fell a few times as he tried to maneuver into, and up on the boulders. He was barefooted, and slung around his neck was an oversized creel that kept throwing him off balance when he yanked his line.

After watching for a bit, I turned to Gar and said, “I don’t see a truck, I wonder if he walked here.” Then as an afterthought, I asked, “Do you want to go help him?”

Gar, an avid fisherman, shook his head, “I don’t think I could do any better at the line-tugging than he can.” Then he asked, “Do you want to go help him?”

I narrowed my eyes and matter-of-factly scoffed “Oh, no, that’s out of my proficiency and above my pay grade.”