Sometimes You Just Gotta Decide

There was a period, this summer, when I was between addresses.  Dismayed and broken, I struggled with my role in the world.

Through the good graces of my friend Sarah, I lived for a time in the North Loop of the Minneapolis Warehouse District, a neighborhood in transition, more upscale than it used to be, not as gentrified as it will become.  My morning walk to the bus stop took me down mysteriously sticky sidewalks littered with flyers advertising exotic dancers, over railroad tracks, past people who forgot to pick up after their dogs.

And so I am standing next to my new bus stop one morning when I raise my head long enough to see a man sitting on the steps of a business across the street.

Four lanes away, two in each direction, it is just me and him for at least two blocks in each direction.  I stare at him, wonder what he is doing, why he is sitting, when I notice that he is not well.

Strange noises come from him.  His head tics in an arc, returning over and over to retrace its line of motion.  He struggles to stand and fails.

“Hey,” I whisper.

I pull my phone out of my purse to dial “911” when both an ambulance and a police car pull up. 

Someone has already called.

Across the street, I cannot hear them speaking, but their actions are clear.  Hey Buddy, the cop says exiting his car.  How ya doin’?  You in some trouble?

The man’s head continues to bob, to follow the arc he must track.

The ambulance driver squats next to him.  He holds up fingers.  Can you see my fingers?  Do you know what day it is?

The man does not appear to see him.

The squatting EMT puts a hand on the man’s shoulders, runs it up and down his back.  Don’t worry,  I imagine him saying, We’re gonna take care of you.  He stands, joins the other EMT at the back of the ambulance as they unload a Gurney.

I watch this from the bus stop, four lanes across from them.

And I watch as a man in his early 30s pulls up on a 10-speed bike.  He stops.  The police, the EMTS, they don’t see him, but I do.  He pulls out his phone.

And begins to film the man on the steps.  He walks from side to side, films from different angles as emergency personnel lift him to the Gurney.

Hot anger fills my head.  “Hey,” I say.  “You can’t do that.  Hey.”

I step into the street – and step back.

They don’t need my help.

The cop sees the man, moves toward him rapidly.  Arms out, he shoos him away.  Go on, I suppose him to be saying, Keep movin’, pal.

The man on the bike holds the camera in front of the cop, uses the other to gesture a foot or two away.  What if I move here, he motions.

The cop waves him off brusquely, raises his voice, and now I can hear him.  “I said MOVE IT, buddy.  You’re not helping.”

The man on the bike puts his camera away, gets on his bike only to call something out over his shoulder as he pedals away.

The cop waves him off with a dismissive hand gesture, returns to the ambulance in time to see them close the doors.

And the bus rolls up and the doors open.