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Leslie of Liverpool
by
Don Staheli
I'll
just do me duty.
He looked
a little pitiful sitting by himself at the end of the long corridor.
A rather small Englishman with thin and scruffy hair, he was not
the kind to make a first-glance good impression. Somehow images
of the comic actor Stan Laurel came to mind when I first saw Leslie.
Leslie was
a security guard in a building in Chorley, England, a building
that had a few too many security guards. I'm not sure what they
expected would render the place insecure, but whatever it was,
they were certainly prepared. The guards were placed with a stratagem
designed, I suppose, to fend off whatever evil might lurk in the
hearts of calculating men. And Leslie must have been assigned
his post as an integral part of some grand defensive tactic.
In fact, Leslie
was guarding a locked door at the end of a little-used hallway.
Why, I cannot say. No bare-handed human could get through the
heavy, bolted door. Whatever could break it down--should someone
for some unknown reason want to break it down--would not be deterred
by diminutive Leslie. The main threat from this direction was
not likely to be from any outside source of danger, but from the
almost deadly boredom that filled the air at the end of the hall
until I don't know how Leslie could breathe.
I couldn't
help but feel sorry for this poor man. I introduced myself, hoping
a moment of conversation might ease the monotony some.
"And your
name?" I asked.
"Leslie,"
he said quietly, perhaps a little annoyed at my intrusion.
"And where
are you from, Leslie?"
"Liverpool."
"Ah," I quipped,
"Leslie of Liverpool."
He grinned
a bit sheepishly and probably thought I was making fun of him.
Maybe I was.
Leslie was
very pleasant, though, and quickly my impression of the foolish
actor was completely dispelled. Here was a bright, middle-aged
man with a family to care for. He wasn't a big man, but not quite
as small as I had first thought.
I soon learned
that Leslie was a volunteer. Yes, he worked as a security guard
in another city, in Liverpool, actually, but he manned this post
as a favor to a friend and wasn't getting a dime for being there.
"Leslie,"
I said, "could I get you a softer chair?"
"No," said
he, "this one will do."
"Well," I
proposed, "do you really need to be here? Nothing seems likely
to happen."
He looked
around as if to quickly assess the current level of security.
"I'll just
do what I've been asked," he said in his thick Liverpudlian accent.
"I'll just do me duty."
"May I at
least bring you a can of juice or something? You could man your
post and still drink some juice."
"No thanks,"
he replied with a certain firmness in his voice, "I'll just do
me duty."
I finally
gave up. "Okay, have a good evening."
I admit I
was not very sympathetic to Leslie's sense of duty. It seemed
a bit overzealous to me.
That night
I had an interesting dream. I was in England, so it is not surprising
that it was a dream of knights and heavy armor and white chargers.
There were fighting and bravery, charging hordes and clanging
swords.
One knight
stood out among all the rest. I don't remember if his armor was
actually shining, but he was strong and true and the hero of my
dream.
As the hero-knight
emerged victorious, he stopped and dismounted his powerful steed.
He stood before me, removed his helmet with dignity, and quietly
introduced himself.
"Good day,
Sir," he said calmly. "I am Leslie, Leslie of Liverpool."
I awoke with
a start. Wide awake. And I saw clearly the courage of Leslie.
He had been
asked to perform a rather perfunctory task, but his sense of honor
and duty caused him to do it to the very best of his ability.
I think he would have guarded the Crown Jewels with no more pride
or careful attention. A volunteer, not being paid at all, sitting
alone in that empty hall, he felt a commitment to muster all his
professional skill and to focus on the performance of his duty.
Even with detractors like me around, he was determined to stay
on track and do it right.
Leslie taught
me that to do your duty is to set aside self and give heart and
mind to the higher good. To give it your all, even when the individual
task seems truly menial, that is the fulfillment of duty. It's
the Leslies of the world, each one doing his or her duty, that
allow us all to rise above our natural human meanness and achieve
what none could do alone.
The next evening
as I was leaving the building I looked in hope for Leslie. He
was there again, at the end of the hall, a knight in invisible
armor doing his duty. I was glad to see him. We greeted each other.
Then, without telling him why, I asked a passer-by to take my
picture standing next to Leslie. I wanted to remember what a hero
looks like and prove that I had known one.
Lancelot, Gawain,
and Galahad are legendary for purity and cunning and strength, but
Leslie of Liverpool, the great doer of duty, is my hero.
I'll
just do me duty.
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