I was up late Saturday night – Sunday morning really, and I got thirsty. I said to myself, “Self, some orange juice would really hit the spot right now.” I really like orange juice, you see. It’s not uncommon for me to drink an entire carton in a day. So I went to the refridgerator, rummaging around for some OJ. Alas, I was all out. Fortunately, I live in New Yawk City and am blessed with the convenience of a 24-hour convenience store a mere block from my apartment. So I donned some pants and exited my building at around 2:40 AM. I was thinking to myself, “Self, it sure is a beautiful night out tonight,” as I was walking toward the courtyard entrance. It is there that I encountered a little Mexican, lying on the ground motionless, with a stupid grin on his face. There are lots of Mexican immigrants in my neighborhood, some of them illegal immigrants, so I know a Mexican when I see one, you see.
Now, I have a little bit of emergency training. I’m no ER doctor or paramedic, but I am an Officially Certified Lifeguard. When I took my lifeguard training classes, I daydreamed of running down the beach, my bronzed, rippling muscles undulating in slow motion, as I pulled some hapless 19 year old farmgirl from Montana who had never seen the ocean before out of a dangerous rip current. Naturally, I ended up getting a seven buck an hour job at a local public swimming pool, where the only girls were all under six years of age.
Anyway, so I approach this guy, look down at him, and figure I had better see if he was in need of medical attention. I started this process by lightly kicking him.
“Hey,” I said. “Hey. Hey pal. Do you live here? In this building?”
No response.
So I knelt down beside this poor fellow and felt for a pulse, and listened for breath. There was a pulse, all right. And when he exhaled I got a nice whiff of some of the most foul smelling tequilla-breath ever. So I shook him some more.
“Eh?” He said.
“Do you live here? Are you OK?”
Long pause.
“Eh.”
At this point I said to myself, “Self, there’s nothing I can do for this poor drunken Mexican fellow, but it would not be wise to leave him here passed out in my courtyard entrance.” So I went back into my apartment to retrieve my cell phone, and dialled 911. (My cellphone plays a really special, super-tense melody when 911 is dialed. It reminds me of the movies.)
“State 911 operator, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Hi. I need to report a drunk passed out guy in front of my building.”
I proceeded to give the nice lady at the 911 center my address and a description of the chap, and that was that. I then went back outside to complete my mission of acquiring orange juice.
But there was that poor Little Drunken Mexican. I am a good samaritin, after all, and I felt I couldn’t just leave him there. So I decided I should wait until the cops show up before getting my orange juice. So wait I did.
About ten minutes later, I spotted some flashing lights coming around the corner. Two police cars, an ambulance and a fire engine drove straight past my building, sirens a-blazin’, presumably to some more important emergency. Either that or the cops had run out of donuts.
So I waited some more, and eventually another drunken guy showed up. This guy was able to walk, and he seemed to know the guy passed out on the ground.
“Do you know this guy?” I asked.
“Yeh he mah ffffrrreeeend,” he informed me.
This second guy apparently lived in my building, and insisted on attempting to pick up the little drunken guy and get him moving.
This was an utter failure.
He would pick up the passed out drunken guy, and try to convince him to walk. He seemed unable to stand up of his own power, and the second guy was so drunk, that I would end up catching them both before they fell over. This process was repeated about five times, before the second guy gave up and disapeared into the building.
I stood at my post, explaining to a few passersby that the guy was just drunk and I was waiting for the cops to show up. A few just regarded the sleeping creature with an eye of suspicion and curiosity and went on their way. Soon after, a police van rounded the corner, and I flagged them down.
“What’s the problem?” One of the officers asked.
“This guy over here is drunk.”
The cops shone their flashlights at the Little Drunken Mexican. They proceeded to attempt to rouse him while another cop rummaged in his pockets to try and find some ID. He found a wallet with a little cash and one of those useless ID cards you can pick up in Times Square, indicating that his name was, apparently, Miguel. Like the other drunken guy, the cops tried to get him to stand up and talk.
“Do you live around here? Donde su casa?”
“Eehhh, uhh, Queens!”
“Where in Queens do you live?”
“My wha-na-na-na-nawonkarzzo!”
The Little Drunken Mexican then fell over again and went back to sleep. The cops then picked him up and sort of laid him up against the wall, presumably to try and coerce him into standing up. This was one of the funniest images of the whole night. This guy, wearing baggy clothing, leaning on his face against the wall, as if he were some kind of little squishy manequin. A second attempt was made at communication. The Little Drunken Mexican then proceeded to barf all over one of the cops’ shoe.
“Aww, shit!” said that cop.
“No, puke.” said another one, as the rest of them laughed.
Stupid rookie.
Anyway, about this time, another flashy-lights vehicle arrived carrying what appeared to be a paramedic. He examined the Little Drunken Mexican a little bit, and decreed that he was too far gone to do anything for himself and they should wait for the ambulance to show up. It did, a few minutes later, and they began loading him on a stretcher.
“So, officer, do you need me to stick around or anything?” I asked.
“No, sir, we’ll handle it. Thanks.”
“No problem,” said I, and I turned to finally obtain my hard-earned OJ. I also got some Cheez-Its. By the time I got back, all three emergency vehicles had departed, all the cops and paramedics were gone, and the street was quiet again. No sign of the Little Drunken Mexican remained, except for a nice puddle of vomit that seemed to outline the shape of a boot.
What reminded me of this whole incident is that just now, as I was exiting the little diner accross from my apartment, I saw Miguel coming towards me. He appeared perfectly sober, and didn’t smell of vomit.
“Hey, Miguel!” I said as he passed. He gave me an odd look, then continued on, obviously having no idea who I was. He was headed towards the bar.