Dinner in the big city

We were going go to someone’s house tonight for a BBQ but they came down with the flu.  So we decided that going out for a delicious King Crab in the city was what was called for.  Don called our favorite Chinese restaurant and lo-and-behold, they had a King Crab that was still up for grabs.  Don reserved both a table and the crab.  5 pm, because the minute he knew a crab dinner was in our future, his mouth got very hungry and impatient.

We got to the restaurant five minutes early.  No one was in the lobby and there was the loud noise of someone pushing an industrial vacuum cleaner around and the clanking of dishes.  We waited.  So pleased that we had come up with this good idea.

Dinner was delicious.

We declined dessert.  Don and Will probably because they were full, but me?  I was thinking ahead.  I was planning on waiting until we were out on the street to hit them up with the old, “Hey, anybody want to walk over to Robson for a caramel apple?”

As we exited the doors of the restaurant, Don groaned and said, “I’m so full.”

“Me too,” said Will. 

I wasn’t.  I’d saved room.  No worries.  There was no law saying that just because they were full didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be happy for a little after dinner walk, with me.  Robson street always feels like an event waiting to happen.

I opened my mouth to make the caramel apple suggestion when we came across a rather small person with their upper body curled up around them-self, face down in the dirt.  The hips twisted slightly, legs dangling down the cement flowerbed wall, next to a full garbage can.  The yellow tulips were in bloom and there were some pretty pink delicate flowers as well.  One of this person’s arms was tucked under the body.  The other was hunched into itself, the hand gnarled around into almost an exaggerated claw.  The fingers of the arm this person was lying on looked feminine, delicate, swollen and a reddish purple color because, I don’t know, lack of circulation.  I could see a few thin red scratch marks in her dirt matted scalp.  Didn’t know if the dirt had been embedded in the hair for a while or if this person had been in a different position in the dirt before the torso curled itself into this modified fetal position.

There was a middle aged man, bottle thick lenses on his glasses.  Holding a plastic carry bag in his left hand.  “Are you alright?” He was saying.  “Are you alright?” He was shaking.  I walked over, Don and Will followed.  “I’m worried,” he said, looking lost.  I tried to rouse what I thought was a woman, with a mans haircut to keep her safe on the street.  No response.  “Listerine,” the middle aged man said.  “It’s poison.  People die from it.” At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, and then I noticed the Listerine smell.  So strong my eyes smarted.  “I’m scared,” the middle aged man said.  “I don’t want this person to just die on the street.  I...” he was staring at this person like maybe it was himself he was seeing.  “I feel terrible.  I am just coming from the liquor store.  I walked down to get a bottle of wine to bring back to my apartment.”

I put my hand on the shoulder of this curled up person.  Gingerly.  She was breathing.  “Are you okay?” I said.  Nervous that she was dead already, but scared too, that she would come too and roar at me.  Bite my hand.  Or that somehow, by touching her, I would become her.

No response. 

We decided to call 911.  Don had his cell.  The operator on the other end asked us to describe the person.  Hard to do when the person is lying face down in the dirt. 

“We are supposed to roll her on her back,” Don said, listening hard in the phone, his other finger stuck in his ear.  “I’m going to roll you over,” I said.  I tried first gently, but the person’s body was stiff, hard.  “I can’t,” I said.  “Are you sure that’s what we’re supposed to do?  What if she throws up, she’ll choke on it.”

“We have to roll her over.” I put more muscle into it.  And got her onto her back.  She had some straggly whiskers on her upper lip and coming out of her chin.  She was way younger than I had thought.  Late twenties maybe.  Her mouth moved.  “You have to tip her head back.”

“It is tipped back,” I said.  All of a sudden a grey haired woman in her late fifties, early sixties, was at the woman’s head.

“We have to tip it back more,” she said and she did.  Her hand hovering over this persons mouth.  “Her breath is regular.” She said, to Don who told the person on the phone.  I was glad she was there.  And that’s when I noticed the hospital bracelets on the right hand. 

“Excuse me,” I said to the unconscious person.  “I’m going to check your wrist.” The name on the band was a man’s name.  I felt embarrassed.  Hoped he hadn’t heard me somewhere in his unconscious mind saying he was a woman.  That he had a woman’s hands. 

There was the sound of sirens.  A fire truck screeched to a halt.  A second later an ambulance jumped up onto the sidewalk and we were surrounded by professionals.  One of the guys from the fire truck, got within four feet and said.  “Listerine.  Now that’s what I call fresh.” And then they got busy.  I don’t know if that is from a TV ad or something, but they didn’t need us anymore, so we left. 

Nobody was interested in ambling down to get a caramel apple.  And I wasn’t sure if I wanted one anymore myself. 

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, May 10, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Page 1 of 1 pages