The Bicycle, The German, and the Bleeding Woman

On our way back from a shopping excursion today, we found ourselves at a busy intersection, debating whether or not to take a bus to a local mall.

As we stood there, a stooped woman — so stooped, in fact, that her shopping bag was dragging along the ground — slinked past us, shuffled onto the curb, and took a tumble straight into the street. She plowed face-first into the asphalt and lay there like a rag broken doll.

J. and J. and Clyde and I, along with a young German on a bicycle, stopped to help. The woman had dropped her purse and her shopping bag when falling. One person moved her purse to the sidewalk, and I picked up the bag while others helped the dazed woman sit up.

The bag, incidentally, was crammed full of eight huge cans of beer.

Meanwhile, the woman was sitting upright. A gash in her head was spouting blood — big, enormous spurts of thin red liquid that shot out farther whenever she coughed. J. and others tried to direct her to press wads of napkins to her head, but she was too confused (or inebriated) to understand. About the time the flow of blood would slow, should would pull at the injury again, making it bleed even harder.

In the business of getting the woman up and out of the flow of traffic, I backed up abruptly and inadvertently knocked over the young German man’s bike. It fell against a lamp post, putting a small scratch, about a quarter of an inch long, in the paint on the frame beneath the seat.

The German was horrified. He started cursing and and polishing the frame with his fingers. “This bike cost me 3,000 Euro!” he exclaimed. He polished it some more. “What are you going to do about it?”

I was very apologetic, but — really — what *was* I going to do? As his complaints grew louder and more angry, J. suggested we move away. After apologizing (which, clearly, wasn’t going to be enough for the German) and making sure the bleeding woman was receiving medical attention, we went on our way.

I felt terrible. On the one hand, the toppling of the bike was a total accident. On the other, I felt badly about the accident. And, beyond this, it seemed odd that such a tiny scratch had provoked such a loud and angry response from the German. The whole moment just had bad energy.

Suddenly, the German streaked up beside us on his bike. “I need to know what you’re going to do about this,” he said, indicating the scratch again. “I need you to give me some money or something.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said again. “But I don’t carry cash, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“Then we’re going to have to go to an ATM or something,” he said.

And this is the point, dear reader, where the world “scam” popped into my head. I do not know whether he had planned this from the beginning, or whether he was trying to take advantage of the moment … but he was clearly trying to take advantage of me. “No,” I said firmly. “We are *not* going to an ATM.”

“Then we’ll go to the police,” the German said. He pointed back to the scene of the accident, where a police cruiser had parked. “There’s a car there now.”

“Let’s go,” I agreed. Again — what was I to do?

The German sped off on his bike, arrived first, and began giving the officer his story. When I walked up, the officer — a young fellow, maybe 35, exceedingly polite — asked me for my side.

“We were helping the woman who fell,” I said. “In the process, I did back into his bike, which was standing next to the lamp post. It fell, and it was scratched. I apologized, but since then, this guy’s been following us and pressuring us for money.”

The policeman betrayed nothing. He just nodded, took notes, and turned to our German friend, who was furiously polishing the tiny scratch. “It’s a 3000 euro bike!” the German said again. “The scratch has penetrated the glaze! The frame will rust and break apart. I put my life savings into this!”

“It is a small scratch on your bike,” the policeman said. “It’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing to be done.”

“I’m going to need compensation!” the German insisted.

“May I see your identification?” the policeman asked. “Your passport?”

“I don’t have it with me,” the German snapped.

The policeman was unfazed. “Something? Any form of identification?”

“No, I have nothing with me,” the German insisted.

“Do you have the name of your insurance company?”

“No,” the German said. “I live in a family house, many people living together, and we have insurance, but I don’t know anything about it.”

The policeman turned to me. “I will file a report. If he needs the report to file his insurance, he’ll have it. Thank you.” He nodded in a way that said, “Clear out.”

As we walked away, I heard the German start up again: “They have ruined my bike! I want compensation!”

“This is no longer your problem,” the policeman said firmly. “It’s my problem. I will file the report…”

And, with that, we disappeared into the crowd.

I am grateful, very grateful, to the Icelandic police.