Pizza and a Show

So this happened a few months ago. I forgot I had a blog for a while. I'll start updating more again. 

It was a helluva weekend. Friday night I met Melissa at 816 Pint and Slice for a pint and a slice. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and a Christmas present she ordered me finally came in. I know its four months past Christmas, but the item was sold out and just recently became available again.

She got me Cards Against Humanity, which is a mad libs type game. The black cards have sentences on them and the white cards have the fill in words and you combine them to make the most fucked up sentences possible. It’s hysterically vulgar and not a game for the easily offended or children, unless you want to spend hours explaining to kids what the cards mean. You know actually forget it, do not show this game to kids.

Anyway, so I met up with her around 6:30 and had my first Oberon of the summer. Oh sweet Oberon, how I do love thee. You’re color that of the golden summer sun, your taste of sweet nectar and hints of citrus. It’s fucking summer in a bottle.

So there we are sitting in a window booth, chit chatting about what we’ve been up to in the 4 months since we broke up, did I mention she is my ex? Meanwhile there is a homeless guy (let’s call him H.G.) loitering in front of the store, rambling to himself and the dog tied to a tree in front of the store about fuck if I know, pacing around panhandling and what not.

In the booth I’m facing Melissa with my back to H.G. eating my pizza and savoring my Oberon, if you’re ever in Fort Waste stop and get the White Album and the BBQ Chicken at Pint and Slice it’s tasty pizza, when suddenly a look of disgust and terror takes over her face.

H.G. had vomited all over himself, his luggage, blanket, the sidewalk, and one of the store windows. He then fell to ground and began seizing violently. Melissa and I look at each other, our appetites gone at the sight of the lake of puke five feet away from us on the other side of the glass, trying to decide if we should call the cops or go try to help or just sit there gawking at this human’s suffering like it was some new reality show. I’m a terrible person, I know. But I had plans after this pseudo-date and didn’t want to get puke on me. Plus I think that falls into the store proprietor’s jurisdiction.

Luckily a couple people from the diner next door came out, called the cops, and rolled the guy on his side. He was still seizing so they had to hold him there so he didn’t asphyxiate on his own vomit like some rock star. How they didn’t puke from seeing, standing in, and touching all that vomit I don’t know. It kind of reminded me of the Mr.Creosote sketch from The Meaning of Life, but he wasn’t a giant fat guy eating and puking. He was a scrawny homeless guy, possibly schizophrenic, who was seizing and puking.

So Melissa and I watched, I drank, while they held the guy down and waited for the cops. All the while I’m worried about what’s going to happen to the white and black American Mutt tied to the tree in front of him. If it was his dog and he was hospitalized it would be sent to the pound and probably put to sleep. This, I thought, was the saddest part of the whole deal. Does that make me a terrible person? That I’m more concerned for the dog’s well-being and safety than I was for H.G.’s. The dog is an innocent in this whole situation, it didn't contribute to it's owner's life choices.

At this point, everyone left in the restaurant is watching the drama unfolding right in front of us. Wondering what’s wrong with him, is he on drugs, is he mentally disturbed, is that his dog and finally holy shit is he dead?

About five minutes before the cops got there he stopped moving and the three people attending to him outside got oh shit looks on their faces. You know the face. The, oh shit, something really bad just happened face. Whispers of is he dead start circulating thru the crowd, people asking if he was still breathing, and where the fuck are the police. Mind you, the police station is roughly 4 blocks away and the fire station is about 6.

The EMT’s got there first, but they appeared to be in no hurry as they rolled out of the ambulance and sauntered up to H.G., who was lying motionless on the concrete barely breathing. I was seriously waiting for the EMT to nudge him with his foot and ask if he was dead, the guy looked that incompetent. He was obviously one of those guys who didn’t get out of the ambulance much. He looked to be about 6 feet tall maybe 300 pounds, completely uninterested in helping this guy. I know it’s gross, but that’s your fucking job.

The other guy that got out of the ambulance seemed to be on top of his shit, he was younger, seemed more motivated. He had his gloves on and the stretcher out before I could blink and was checking H.G.’s vitals while the old fat guy just stood and watched.

When they picked H.G. up and put him on the stretcher he was completely limp. Like dead guy in the movies limp, they put his arms across his chest and they promptly fell to his sides when the EMT’s lifted him. Melissa started freaking out when they covered his head with the sheet. They didn’t cover him completely; I think they did it just to keep it out of the way. She, however, was convinced that meant he was dead. I was still worried about his poor dog.

The cops finally showed up as they were putting H.G. into the ambulance. I laughed as the cop almost puked at the sight and smell of all vomit. They picked up H.G.’s puke covered rollie bag and blanket and put them in the back of the ambulance. I got nervous when he headed toward the dog, but a woman stepped in and removed the dog’s leash from the tree and moved him to another tree. I hope this lady was the owner or just decided to adopt the dog right there so it wouldn’t get shipped to the euthanasia clinic pound.

With H.G. on his way to the hospital and the dog safely in the hands of his owner, somebody from the diner came out with water and washed the puke off of the sidewalk. People went back about their business, and I got a to go box for the pizza we couldn’t eat (it made a great breakfast, BTW).

This whole situation struck me as a glimpse of the American psyche, our voyeuristic culture, the system’s lackadaisical attitude toward the nation’s homeless population, and our short term memory loss. Did we all watch wondering if he was dying? Was the response time so slow because he was homeless? I’m sure whoever called mentioned H.G.’s situation during the call. If the same situation had occurred at the ritzy outdoor mall would response time have been faster? Definitely. Did anyone follow up to see if he was ok? I sure didn’t. I told the story to the other people I saw that night, but I couldn’t tell you if he lived or died. More importantly, was the dog ok?

I think we forget that the people we encounter are actually people and not just whatever descriptor we assign them. H.G. was a person, he surely wasn’t homeless his whole life. Maybe he lost his job when the stock market crashed, maybe that threw him into a depression spiral and he lost everything, which pushed him farther down and caused him to try to escape his misery through drug use. Maybe it was the drug use that caused the vomiting and seizures. Maybe we watched him overdose and die right there on the street corner, his misery ended permanently.

Maybe he was schizophrenic and got kicked out of the system when he turned 18 like so many mentally disabled people do now that asylums are a thing of the past. Whatever series of unfortunate events led him to that street corner and caused his vomiting and seizure, it must have been tragic. Should we take solace in the fact that if it was his end, at least we were entertained? In that sick way the mobs of ancient Rome were entertained by slaughter in the Coliseum. Is it right, no, but this is what we’ve become; a society caring only about entertainment, the first thing I heard when it was all over is very telling of our empathy toward our fellow Americans. It was, “well that was interesting.” I may have said it. Man I’m fucked up.