Sometimes life just gets real, you know? As I’m writing this, it’s Monday, my day off. I went downtown to have my hair cut and the blue-streak blued up again, then went over to Target to get some things, then crossed 4th Street and Mission to go through the Westfield Mall to get to BART and thence home. I had my back to the street, preparatory to going into the Westfield building when behind me there was the most Godawful noise–something between a *bang* and a *pop*, and then the sound of a motor gunning. Not sure if it was a motorcycle or a car, because what I saw was a guy lying in the street, obviously having been struck by the vehicle that had hauled ass away.
I waited until the light changed to cross the street; the man–with some presence of mind–grabbed his backpack and the sneaker he’d been knocked out of, and dragged himself across to the opposite sidewalk. By this time I, and a couple of other people, were on the phone to 911. The victim curled up around his pain, groaning. I suspect, from his dress and his backpack that he is unhoused–he had that ‘carrying everything I own’ kind of manner. But right then all that mattered was that he was hurt. Conscious and apparently oriented, not bleeding–although his pants were down around his knees, and he had a hell of a contusion on his hip. A fire truck came around the corner as I was on the phone–I don’t think they’d come in response to my call, but they saw us and came over. The lead EMT, a woman with impeccable bedside manner.
And this is the moment where I had to take myself away. Not because it was all too Real Life, but because I could feel myself wanting to participate, to provide information, to be helpful. Without any real info to give, of course (my back was to the street, I knew nothing ab0ut what had happened except for what happened afterward). And the EMT didn’t need me being helpful: she needed to focus on her patient. So I crossed the street back to the Westfield and took myself to BART.
And when I got to my stop on BART and came upstairs, I was treated to the sight of six mid-twenties people in various states of clown dress–makeup, spangly clothes, big shoes, etc. “Is there a convention?” I asked. The guy nearest me rolled his eyes, so, for the second time in an hour, I took myself away. The writer in me would love to know the end of both stories, and probably never will.