Tuesday, 25 November 2003 | Cinderella

"Do you have kids?" he asked several people in the room, one by one, without further explaining why he wanted to know. First, he asked my (male) temporary physical therapist, and, second, he questioned a demure woman who was busy concentrating on her leg exercises. "I don't have kids, either," I offered, and the man smiled and shook his head, mounting his defense. "Now, I'm not trying to be nosey."

He was enormous, in a tall and strong sort of way. Dark skin and a gold cap on one of his front teeth, probably the sort of man who inspires a certain breed of old white women to tightly clutch their handbags when they see him.

Sitting stationary on an exercise bike, his big knees bent up like sharp mountains, he finally revealed that he had some extra tickets for a kids' Christmas play, that the play was tomorrow, and that he wanted to give the tickets to someone who could use them.

He was met with approval. "That's sweet," one woman said. "That's very nice," said another. "Yeah," he replied, almost more to himself than to the women. "...now, I'm not asking for any money for them; I'm giving them away for free," he stressed. "I just think some kids ought to go and enjoy it, you know? I mean, adults can go too—I saw it last year and it was okay—but I think kids would really dig it."

As I moved around the room to the various stations during the next hour of therapy, I could still hear segments of the same phrases as he offered the prize to every person in the room. "Now the play is tomorrow, so there's not a lot of time for me to get rid of these tickets...I'm not asking for any money...I just want to give them to someone who'll appreciate them." He explained his case with each new person as thoroughly as the last, even though no one could use the tickets.

When I left, he was still making the rounds, but had developed a kind of sweet grin on his face, as if he was surprised and pleased with himself that he'd cinderella'd himself and escaped his intimidating appearance.