we are sixty miles below the snow line, but it's still a bitterly cold rain that's falling through the yellowed leaves in brooklyn tonight. I'm walking home from the grocery store, two bags of supplies for tomorrow's lab looped over my left arm, with my raincoat's hood muffling all the noise of the street. halfway up the block I see a man lying on the sidewalk, one leg bent casually at the knee, and I wonder if he's channeling andy goldsworthy. a boy, tall but probably still in elementary school, is circling him on rollerblades, talking to him.

I'm not close enough to hear their conversation before the boy comes gliding towards me. as he passes, he says, "excuse me?" but when I turn, nodding, he says, "never mind" and skates past.

the man on the sidewalk is just a few buildings down, now, and as I walk towards him I see his legs start to shudder a bit, his shoulders arching off the wet ground. he's trying to get up but it's as if his arms are dead and useless. I'm nearly next to him and the closer I get the more pointedly he looks in any direction but at my face. he's willing me to keep walking, to leave him alone.

I take a few strides past, into the shadow of a tree. I watch over the corner of my shoulder as he rolls over and gets to his knees, tries to stand, and pitches forward onto the hard concrete. I turn to go home. I can't. I turn around and walk back to him.

"do you need help?"
"no, no. I'm fine." he is shrinking away from me as much as he can while lying flat against the sidwalk. I take a step back, trying to be unthreatening.
"do you want me to call anyone for you?"
"no. I'm fine."

he is wearing a t-shirt and jeans and moccasins. it's forty degrees and the raindrops have an icy edge to them. I wonder if it were me, trapped involuntarily in the spotlight of my apartment building's stoop, if I would be saying the same things to passing strangers. leave me alone; I'm fine. it's usually what I say when I'm not fine at all.

"do you live here?" he doesn't answer so I think that probably means yes. I walk over and peer into the hallway. there's a young woman -- younger than I am, I think -- walking out an apartment with a trash bag in her hand. I bang on the door until she comes over. her expression is a mixture of exasperation and impatience. I cringe in anticipation.

"I'm sorry," I say. "but do you know if this man lives here? I think he needs help."
she steps out into the rain her her sockfeet, recognizing her neighbor immediately. "oh!" she says, all annoyance gone from her face. "are you okay? do you want me to call your wife?"
"no, no! I'm fine."
"let me help you," she says, reaching for one of his arms. emboldened, I reach for the other. the smell of whiskey is a relief; at least he isn't having a stroke.

we lift him off the sidewalk, but his feet don't seem to be feeling the ground. the boy on the rollerblades is back -- he must have been watching from the end of the block -- and telling us in a relieved jumble of half-sentences that the man told him not to call 911, but his hand is bleeding, and he didn't want an ambulance. it's okay, we say. we've got him now. thank you for watching out for him.

the man's slippered feet have found the sidwalk.
"okay," he says. "I'm okay now." but his arm is heavy against my elbow.
"I'm sorry, I just don't think that's true," I tell him. "I'll take you inside," says the woman who still has the ties of her garbage bag looped around her other wrist. he acquiesces, letting her guide him towards the door. I lift him up the stairs and then let his arm slide free from my own. the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket is soggy, crushed flat.

I walk the rest of the way home with my groceries banging against the outside of my knee.
[ 15 October 2009]  ·  [ ]