A View of It Happens Everyday

I hop in my car at the end of a long work week. It's Friday! Time to enjoy a relaxing weekend. But first some errands, just like I do everyday. Stop and get gas, pick up some potting soil and a new planter for an office plant that needs more space, think about picking up something for dinner before deciding to cook something when I get home.

I'm driving down Woodward, just like I do everyday, enjoying some music, happy to feel a cool breeze coming through my windows, when I see something I don't see everyday.

There was a woman on the corner of Woodward and Glendale. She was slumped over in a wheelchair, her right hand grazing the pavement. Her hair fell forward in her face, her feel slack on the sidewalk. She was wearing black knit shorts, worn down flip flops (or should I say a worn down flip flop - one had come off her foot), and a black and white plaid shirt that was almost completely open. The way she was positioned in the chair and the way she was slumped over, it was hard to tell if she were male or female.

The driver in front of me blew his horn in an attempt to rouse her. She didn't move. At that moment, the light changed and it was time to move on. Just like drivers do everyday. I had to pull forward and drive through the parking lot of the gas station across the street in order to circle back into the parking lot she was in front of and call the police.

As I was on the phone with a dispatcher, a woman walked by the woman in the chair. She tapped her on the shoulder, and for the first time since I'd seen her, the woman in the chair moved. It was a slight nod of her head, just enough for the passerby to assume she was okay. She kept on walking. The dispatcher told me an ambulance and a squad car was on the way - someone had called a couple of minutes earlier. I hung up the phone, turned off the car, and got out.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" I asked walking toward her. She barely moved. I noticed an old bandage about six inches long taped on her leg. It looked like hadn't been changed in several days.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" I got a bit closer. By now, I could see that she hadn't had a bath in at least a day or two. The bare foot was ashy and dirty, almost black on the bottom. She looked up slightly and murmured something, but I couldn't hear what. She looked old and neglected. Her teeth were ragged, her lips dry and a little chapped. She barely opened her eyes.

I started to go a little closer, but I was afraid to touch her. I didn't know what was wrong with her. Was she having a seizure? Hypoglycemic? High? Combative? I didn't know what to do.

Fortunately by this time, the ambulance was pulling up. At the same time, a man was approaching the corner. He was shaking his head.

"She does this everyday," he said, as the EMT was walking up to the woman in the wheelchair. Almost simultaneously, the EMT spoke to the woman.

"Jane (not her real name)? Have you been drinking again?"

"I had to put her out of the gas station," the man standing next to me said. "She comes over to the gas station and hangs out with the other drunks. We have to throw her out everyday."

The second EMT asked the two of us some questions about her. How long had she been there on the corner? Just a few minutes. The two men she'd been drinking with wheeled her across the street and left her on the corner before they took off. How much had she had to drink? The men had thrown away and empty fifth of vodka before wheeling her away from the gas station. How long had it been since a call went in to 911? When I talked to the dispatcher, it was 6:44. The dispatcher told me she'd received a call about the woman at 6:38.

"I don't know why she's in that chair," the man next to me said. "She can walk, you know. She lives right across the street.'

By now, the woman was sitting up a little straighter in her chair, though she was still slumped over. The first EMT buttoned up her shirt as he asked her what she wanted.

"I just want to go home," she said. Her words slurred. The EMT stepped back, flinching from the smell of alcohol on her breath. The second EMT began unloading a gurney from the back of the ambulance. At about this point, a squad car arrived.

"Jane? Are you okay?" The police officers knew her by name, too.

"It's the usual," said the first EMT. "She's had a lot to drink today."

The man next to me worked at the gas station across the street. He said this happens everyday. Jane comes to the station to panhandle and drink. She has too much and gets kicked out, passes out, or both. The police and an ambulance show up, get her some treatment, then take her home.

"It happens everyday," the man from the gas station said. Shaking his head, he walked away. I asked the EMT if he needed anything else from me. When he said no, I began to walk to my car. I looked back, and I saw them preparing to put her on the gurney. The cops and the EMTs talked to her and each other, handling her with care, trying to joke with her and each other.

I got in my car and headed down Woodward towards home. Just like I do everyday.

More later, but I can't help but wonder if she's okay. And I hope that the same thing that happens to her everday doesn't happen to her tomorrow. If you know anyone who has a drinking problem, please get in touch with Alcoholics Anonymous, your doctor, or trusted adviser for assistance on how to help that person; and Al-Anon to get help for yourself on how to cope with a loved one's addiction. Keep your eyes open as you go about your day-to-day affairs, and don't be afraid to provide any assistance if you see someone in trouble or something that isn't right - even if that assistance is simply calling 911. For every person who stopped, there were at least ten who kept on going as though nothing was wrong. Everyday will just keep happening the same as it does unless we try to do just one thing a little different.

A View of Not Wanting to Write

It's been a while since I've written anything. It's been a while since I've felt like writing. An idea or two would peek out of the shadows for a quick second, just long enough for me to see a glimpse of a post only to disappear just as quickly. I'd scan websites, read all sorts of newspapers or magazines, watch TV or half-heartedly listen to podcasts, but not one particular topic would linger in my head long enough for me to log on and begin to type.

Some of the ideas were provocative, like an article I read just after the holidays about advertisements posted on the sides of 800 British buses by the Atheist Bus Campaign in an effort to provide a secular counterpoint to a promotion by a Christian group that warned non-believers they were doomed to an eternity of torment in Hell. Here in America, the Atheist Bus Campaign would have never gotten (for lack of a better phrase) any traction because of fears of protest by fundamentalists. In London, however, the campaign barely caused a stir. In fact, some religious leaders welcomed the secularist messages because it spurred conversation about God. I thought about writing at length about this, but let it go. I've talked several times on this blog about my atheism. Going on about it might come across (again, for lack of a better phrase) preachy. I let it go.

Some of the ideas were silly - random jokes sent to me from friends and co-workers like this one:

A Short Love Story

A man and a woman, who had never met before and who were both married to other people,
found themselves assigned to the same sleeping room on a trans-continental train. Though initially embarrassed and uneasy over sharing a room, they were both very tired and fell asleep quickly, he in the upper berth and she in the lower. At 1:00 AM, the man leaned down and gently woke the woman.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to reach into the closet to get me a second blanket? I'm awfully cold."

"I have a better idea," she replied. "Just for tonight, let's pretend we're married."

"Wow! That's a great idea!" he exclaimed.

"Good," she replied. "Get your own damn blanket."

After a moment of silence, he farted.

The End.

Or this one, which came with its own illustration:

Always Check Your Child's Homework

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on, I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely, Mrs. Smith

Both were funny but hard to follow-up, so I didn't write.

Others were uplifting and close to home, like a story my mom sent me about the recycling center my family and I use. Sadly, the city of Detroit does not offer curbside recycling with trash pick up like many other municipalities. Instead, practically all of our trash goes to an incinerator in the heart of the city. Recently, the city decided not to renew its contract to keep the incinerator running, but no firm replacement plan has been established. Plans toward more earth friendly waste disposal have been mired in red tape, held back by our ever shrinking tax revenues, and by flat out criminal behavior. Recycle Here is a glimmer of hope and progress in the city, and it as good to read about it thriving.

Good to read about, but I could not get inspired enough to write about it. Or much anything else. I knew I should write something, but I just didn't care enough to do anything.

Then a couple of days ago, the story of a local man's very tragic death made the front page of the Detroit News. Some kids were playing hockey in the basement of an abandoned warehouse and came across legs protruding from the ice. They thought it was a mannequin at first, but they soon realized it was a person. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they left the building. They didn't want to get in trouble and they didn't think anyone would believe them. The empty and neglected building is a haven for scavengers and homeless persons, some of whom had seen the body in the ice for weeks. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they ignored the body. None of them tried to get help. They didn't want to lose their shelter and besides, as one of the men in the article was quoted as saying, they didn't recognize the person's clothes or shoes so they didn't feel the need to try and get help. One of the kids that found the body finally decided to call a friend, who called a friend that worked for the Detroit News. The reporter went to the scene to make sure the story wasn't a hoax, then called police for help. The first call was brushed off with a suggestion to "call 911" instead. The next call got a promise to send out a squad car. The reporter says he waited outside the building with his photographer, but no one showed. A spokesperson for the police said a car was dispatched and officers searched the building, but left after failing to find anything. A third call the next day was disconnected. A fourth call finally led to the discovery and recovery of the man's frozen body.

The reporter decided to write about the experience. The photographer took a photo of the dead man's legs protruding from the ice. The newspaper's editor decided to run the photo and story on the front page. The story quickly spread around the world via wire reports. Some criticized the use of the photo saying that it disrespected the dead - a charge the editor of Detroit News denied. A police department spokesman took offense to the notion that his officers were lax in their duties. Few chose to take the building's owner, one of the richest businessmen in metro Detroit, to task for neglecting to secure his property.

It took a couple of days for the man to be identified. His name was Johnny Redding.

He was 56 years old from River Rouge, a Detroit suburb. It was initially thought that he was homeless and alone. He was not. He was a son, a father, a brother, and a man coping with the loss of a loved one. As I read his story, I thought of my father's death. He died alone in freezing cold water. When he was found, it was thought he was homeless and alone. Like my father, Mr. Redding's body was so frozen it took a couple of days for an initial identification. The autopsy had to wait until his body was able to thaw enough for the medical examiner to be able to run the procedure. As of today, the official cause of death is not known. Homicide has been ruled out. The family is working on funeral arrangements, and there's word that a "prominent musician" has offered to pay for the funeral.

I find myself going back and reading the story and looking at the picture. I wonder about the family and what they must be going through. I wonder about the reporter who had to bring the story to the forefront and how he's coping. I think about Mr. Redding's final moments - whether he was scared, or aware of what was happening. If he tried to call for help and if anyone heard him if he did. The thoughts inevitably make me think of my father and his final moments. They're thoughts I don't want to have, but I can't stop them so I write. It's one time I'm writing because I have to, not because I want to.

More later, after sending my deepest sympathies out to the family of Johnny Redding and anyone who's alone when they don't want to be.