This happened a few weeks ago in a beach town here in Brazil. I had gone for a classic beach day: cooler full of Heinekens, sunshine, ocean, all good vibes. I parked my car a bit far from the sand, and to get to the beach I had to cross this huge, four-lane avenue two lanes each way, no median, no crosswalk, just straight road and hope.
Crossing it in the morning was chill. Barely any traffic. But on my way back, around 5:15 PM, everything had changed full-on rush hour chaos. I had already had a few beers (not drunk, but buzzed), still had three cold Heinekens in the cooler, and was desperately in need of a piss.
The locals had this death-defying crossing technique: sprint the first two lanes, stop in the middle, wait for cars to slow down, then make the final push. I tried twice. Both times I panicked and turned back. That road was ruthless.
And then… I saw him.
A local guy in a wheelchair, confidently approaching the curb like he’d done this before. I thought, “If this guy can do it, so can I.” So I followed him.
We crossed the first two lanes. Entered the third. Then suddenly he stops. Dead in the middle of the third lane, right in front of me. The wheelchair jammed. I’m standing there with my cooler in one hand, about to explode from holding my pee, cars flying past us and I realize: this man might not be from here either.
That suspicion was confirmed the second he turned to me and said: “Bah guri, me empurra que travou, piá.”
For non-Brazilians: that’s a strong southern accent, from Rio Grande do Sul. “Bah” and “piá” are big giveaways. This guy wasn’t a local. I had just followed another clueless tourist into traffic. And now he was stuck. And now I was stuck behind him.
I look to my right a car is coming. Fast. And at that exact moment, cooler in hand, I had to make a decision: drop the beers and help, or try to save them and myself.
And I won’t lie. I hesitated.
I thought: “No one’s gonna hit a guy in a wheelchair. That’s like… breaking the unwritten rules of humanity.” Then I had this completely irrational thought spiral:
“Imagine catching your partner cheating. You might lose your mind. But if it’s with a guy in a wheelchair? You’d freeze. First, he’s suffered enough in life maybe he deserves one win. Second, if your partner cheated with someone in a wheelchair, you’d start questioning yourself, not him. He’s not the villain you are.”
That logic almost convinced me to just walk around him and save the beers.
But I didn’t.
I dropped the cooler (carefully), grabbed the wheelchair, and tried to push. It was jammed, but I forced it loose. We got moving. The car slowed just enough. We made it across.
And as I stood on the other side, soaked in adrenaline, gripping the handles of a stranger’s wheelchair with traffic behind me and warm beer beside me, I had this serene moment of clarity.
I thought: “You know what? I have no regrets. I’ve lived a good life.”
And then, immediately after:
“Wait. Actually… I really, really should’ve peed in the ocean.”
TL;DR: Followed a guy in a wheelchair through highway traffic thinking he knew what he was doing. He didn’t. He got stuck. I almost saved my beers instead of helping him, but chose decency over Heinekens. Almost had an existential moment but mostly just needed to pee.