what happened thursday night
dos equis and i were meeting a friend for an international pop overthrow show in SF, but we stopped for a bite beforehand at a little crêpe place on polk. while we were in the café, our friend called me to plan our rendezvous, so i went outside to take the call. a white-haired and -moustached man was stumbling up the street with some difficulty, sort of lurching from parking meter to newspaper stand to bike rack, where he'd hang on until he was ready to launch himself towards the next one. nothing unusual for polk street, where some of the more oddball transgendered folk of SF strut their stuff and random heads push baby strollers full of recycling and mutter and roam and yell incoherently a lot.
so after this brief phone call i hung up and had my hand on the door of the crêpe place when the white-haired guy yelped. i turned around in time to see him trip forward and take a faceplant into the sidewalk. i don't think his hands reacted in time to break his fall, and the shock of the scene froze me in the doorway for a moment before i shook it off and went to help him. 'are you OK?' i asked in a stupid panic, having just witnessed how OK he wasn't.
a well-dressed guy whose schmancy car had been pulling around the corner leapt out to help and we eventually got him propped up against a lightpost. the man had a big welt on his forehead with an imprint of the metal sidewalk-hole cover he'd landed on – a neat grid of dots and dents. he was alternately woozily grateful and apologetic or vehemently irritated with us. we said we wanted to call an ambulance and he refused to let us do so, demanding that we instead walk him home around the corner. he leaned heavily on us, one on either side of him, and he complained that his knee wasn't working. as we walked, we gently tried to persuade him to call a doctor or at least have a friend come over. 'no, i'll be FINE. i just live RIGHT THERE,' he said. on our six-legged shuffle up the street, i asked, 'has this happened to you before?' and he snapped, 'why do you want to know? are you writing a book?' well, shut me up.
after we'd paused to inspect two apartment buildings and he finally recognized his place, he began fumbling for his keys. a young couple was just leaving the building and held the door open for us. dos equis asked them if they knew our guy, and though they seemed mildly surprised to see him with an entourage of three people, they said this sort of thing had happened before. then they said, 'well, gotta run!' and left. by now the bruise on his forehead had turned into an uneven purplish bump roughly the shape and size of a mint milano oozing blood.
the sharp dresser said he was in a hurry and had to leave, and he and i awkwardly thanked each other. our man said i was a beautiful person and apologized for being so much trouble. i said it was no problem, but i was really worried about his head and would he please let me call an ambulance. 'do you know how EXPENSIVE that is?' he demanded. you can't really argue with that, but then he added, 'honey, i'm a MAKEUP artist,' as if oh, that explained everything, he could just dab some foundation on there and fix it right up. again, what do you say to that, except maybe 'concussion' (silently in your own head)?
so we finally got him into the doorway of his apartment, which had a framed blueprint and art on the walls and looked clean and quite nice, and he began tearing up and telling us he had all these other issues, like his [CENSORED] friends who were in london right now, could you believe that? those [CENSORED] [CENSORED]. dos equis and i stood there with cartoon bubbles above our heads reading '.........'
once again i pleaded with the guy to call a doctor or at least have a friend come over, and once again he got mad and refused. we shook hands and belatedly introduced ourselves. then we said goodbye and he shut the door. i felt terrible.
dos equis and i walked towards the club, wondering what to do. on the one hand, we didn't want to burden the guy financially or create problems for him when he'd hinted at 'other issues.' on the other hand, what about that part where he bashed his head against the pavement? he couldn't move one of his legs very well, and he seemed to have trouble focusing, and that morphing lump on his head was somewhat alarming.
when we got to the club, dos equis consulted the door guy, a friend of his, for advice. the door guy excellently suggested we call the police department's non-emergency line and they'd send someone over to check up on our man. so i called 411 to get the non-emergency line and instead got connected to 911 (now why would i call directory assistance to get the number for 911? yeesh).
i explained the story to the very professional, calm and concerned 911 dispatcher, and she said she'd send an officer over to do a well-being check. she got my phone number in case they had questions for me later, which is good because i'd given her the wrong apartment number. unfortunately i didn't hear the phone during the show and didn't call back until 10:45pm when it could be reasonably expected that the guy had already passed out for the night.
and now we're just left hanging. what happens to these unresolved stories? if i choose my own ending, does that have any effect on the actual outcome?
so after this brief phone call i hung up and had my hand on the door of the crêpe place when the white-haired guy yelped. i turned around in time to see him trip forward and take a faceplant into the sidewalk. i don't think his hands reacted in time to break his fall, and the shock of the scene froze me in the doorway for a moment before i shook it off and went to help him. 'are you OK?' i asked in a stupid panic, having just witnessed how OK he wasn't.
a well-dressed guy whose schmancy car had been pulling around the corner leapt out to help and we eventually got him propped up against a lightpost. the man had a big welt on his forehead with an imprint of the metal sidewalk-hole cover he'd landed on – a neat grid of dots and dents. he was alternately woozily grateful and apologetic or vehemently irritated with us. we said we wanted to call an ambulance and he refused to let us do so, demanding that we instead walk him home around the corner. he leaned heavily on us, one on either side of him, and he complained that his knee wasn't working. as we walked, we gently tried to persuade him to call a doctor or at least have a friend come over. 'no, i'll be FINE. i just live RIGHT THERE,' he said. on our six-legged shuffle up the street, i asked, 'has this happened to you before?' and he snapped, 'why do you want to know? are you writing a book?' well, shut me up.
after we'd paused to inspect two apartment buildings and he finally recognized his place, he began fumbling for his keys. a young couple was just leaving the building and held the door open for us. dos equis asked them if they knew our guy, and though they seemed mildly surprised to see him with an entourage of three people, they said this sort of thing had happened before. then they said, 'well, gotta run!' and left. by now the bruise on his forehead had turned into an uneven purplish bump roughly the shape and size of a mint milano oozing blood.
the sharp dresser said he was in a hurry and had to leave, and he and i awkwardly thanked each other. our man said i was a beautiful person and apologized for being so much trouble. i said it was no problem, but i was really worried about his head and would he please let me call an ambulance. 'do you know how EXPENSIVE that is?' he demanded. you can't really argue with that, but then he added, 'honey, i'm a MAKEUP artist,' as if oh, that explained everything, he could just dab some foundation on there and fix it right up. again, what do you say to that, except maybe 'concussion' (silently in your own head)?
so we finally got him into the doorway of his apartment, which had a framed blueprint and art on the walls and looked clean and quite nice, and he began tearing up and telling us he had all these other issues, like his [CENSORED] friends who were in london right now, could you believe that? those [CENSORED] [CENSORED]. dos equis and i stood there with cartoon bubbles above our heads reading '.........'
once again i pleaded with the guy to call a doctor or at least have a friend come over, and once again he got mad and refused. we shook hands and belatedly introduced ourselves. then we said goodbye and he shut the door. i felt terrible.
dos equis and i walked towards the club, wondering what to do. on the one hand, we didn't want to burden the guy financially or create problems for him when he'd hinted at 'other issues.' on the other hand, what about that part where he bashed his head against the pavement? he couldn't move one of his legs very well, and he seemed to have trouble focusing, and that morphing lump on his head was somewhat alarming.
when we got to the club, dos equis consulted the door guy, a friend of his, for advice. the door guy excellently suggested we call the police department's non-emergency line and they'd send someone over to check up on our man. so i called 411 to get the non-emergency line and instead got connected to 911 (now why would i call directory assistance to get the number for 911? yeesh).
i explained the story to the very professional, calm and concerned 911 dispatcher, and she said she'd send an officer over to do a well-being check. she got my phone number in case they had questions for me later, which is good because i'd given her the wrong apartment number. unfortunately i didn't hear the phone during the show and didn't call back until 10:45pm when it could be reasonably expected that the guy had already passed out for the night.
and now we're just left hanging. what happens to these unresolved stories? if i choose my own ending, does that have any effect on the actual outcome?
posted by a wandering eye at 5:04 PM
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