Incident report

Wednesday was stormy around here. It poured for a while, then the winds kicked in. Around 3:00 in the afternoon, after scarfing down a turkey sandwich and a couple of fried eggs with lots of Tabasco, I went out to the back for a smoke. The sky was dark, an orchestra of somber clouds shape shifting close to the horizon to the south. The rain drops sounded like tiny bullets as they hit the corrugated metal sheeting that covers the little area just beyond the back door. The air was warm. The wind went back and forth, roaring itself up to a frenzy, then suddenly dying down to a whisper. Tornado weather, I thought. I took a pleasantly toxic drag from my cigarette and blew smoke rings as I wondered if the next day, Thursday, would be a good day to make soup. I heard a soft shriek, or a muted scream, or a moan perhaps, or something. I turned around and looked through the kitchen and living room and saw that I’d left the front door open. Maybe there was some commotion out front, but for some reason I was convinced that the noise I’d heard came from behind the house. The acoustics are weird in this neighborhood, but I was pretty sure. So I opened the back door, leaned out, and had a look.

There was a body in the area where I’d park my car if I owned one.

There are many reasons I don’t work at the emergency room. The sight of blood, for one thing, but worse, I have a hard time with the non-negotiable aspect of death, its finality. As I walked down the back steps the rain, which had tapered off, resumed in full force. The body was covered for the most part by a filthy and frayed black trench coat. A torn, floppy cowboy hat the color of chewing tobacco spit covered the top of the head and most of the face. I wondered about the life that had wound up in my driveway. And I wondered how much really separates people like me from people whose lives come crashing to an end on a slab of cold concrete. Chance, I thought, perhaps grace. A good dose of good luck. “Holy shit,” I muttered.

“Where the fuck am I?” I was startled, of course. I asked the person I’d believed just moments ago was dead if he was okay, and he groaned. Beyond his initial question he was completely incoherent. He moved his hands, which looked like the scabby, frozen ham hocks at Safeway, but only a little, and that was all he seemed able to manage. Then – and I am not proud of this, not even remotely – I almost instantly switched into another mode. What if this guy had tripped and fallen into my driveway? Was I responsible for his medical bills if he’d injured himself? Could he sue me? Instantly, I’d gone from wondering about someone’s life to wondering whether he was a liability. How on earth does that happen?

As a person whose drinking was completely out of control not that long ago, encounters with people who are blasted are awkward. I’m repulsed by people who are drunk. But the revulsion is almost always immediately superseded by a measure of sympathy. They need help, I think, or, there but for the grace … Then I think I’m being patronizing. Alcohol is poison for me, but that doesn’t mean it is for everyone. At some point during the mental acrobatics, the fear sets in: I could be the person lying on the pavement. It could happen. It’s not out of the realm of possibility.

One of the two cops who showed up after I called the non-emergency line spoke to me in an impatient tone when I said I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to remove the guy from my property. “First of all, it’s a chick, not a man,” he said. “And second, we need a yes or a no from you.” I shifted my weight from one leg to another and said, “Well …” It wasn’t long before I settled on no: I did not want him to remove the woman. To where? I wondered. To the next covered parking spot? To the underside of the nearest bridge? To the covered entryway at one of the churches down the road? The other part of that question, though, was just as hopeless. Did I think this woman was going to take up residence in my driveway? Would I bring her coffee and meals and clean clothing? Would she become my project, my purpose? Would I become hers? I thanked both the cops for coming. They got in the car, turned the flashers on the roof on (to impress me? to intimidate me?) and drove away. And not long after that, I went to the back of the house and peered out the window. In a way that was both a relief and not, the woman was gone.