Walking on Menzies Street the other day, I glanced sideways down a driveway just as an older man with a walker keeled over and hit the pavement.
I checked him out and he seemed OK, but better to call 911. I realized this little incident was going to eat some of my time. But there was no avoiding it. It wasn’t a major deal, but it would be unthinkable to just walk away.
To be perfectly honest, I pictured a small degree of satisfaction in being a good citizen, doing the obvious right thing. Maybe the old man would thank me, and I’d brush it off politely, then waft away on a small cloud of goodwill.
Or maybe not. Our encounter lasted 10 minutes and it didn’t go according to my reverie. What I got was a smart dressing-down from a drunken, hostile, argumentative old gent. He identified a number of shortcomings in my emergency-response protocol and wasn’t shy about itemizing them.
“I’ve fallen! I’m lying on the ground. Why don’t you do something?”
I explained that I was trying to help and maybe he shouldn’t move for a bit.
“I’m lying on the ground for God’s sake! Get me a blanket.”
There were no blankets. There was some cardboard in a nearby recycling bin. But covering up an elderly street guy with cardboard didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
I was on the phone with the dispatcher at the outset. He wanted to know how old the victim was.
I relayed the question. “How old are you, sir?”
“How old am I? None of your business.”
“Sorry.”
I backed off a step. I wanted to estimate 70-plus, but I was afraid of another tongue-lashing. I whispered: “He’s sort of late middle-age” to the dispatcher.
The old man didn’t hear that, but he remained suspicious and continued grumbling.
“Don’t worry sir, the ambulance is en route.”
That had the exact opposite effect to what I intended.
“En route? En route? Why don’t you speak English? What are you, someone from the Third World? Where are you from? Guatemala?”
I started laughing. The words “difficult patient” came to mind. I told him I was Canadian-born, hoping that might placate him.
Slumped over with his head on the ground, he continued glaring up at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Les.”
“L-E-S. Short for Leslie. L-E-S-L-I-E. You don’t know anything at all about anything.”
I wondered if he was a regular reader.
Spelling the name triggered an urge to start spelling some more.
“What did you do with my bottles? B-O-T-T-L-E-S.”
The ambulance guys showed up, with a remarkably jovial, relaxed attitude. They greeted him as if he were their favourite uncle.
“Hey, it’s Mr. H! Hi, Mr. H. We knew it was you as soon as the call came in. How are you doing? Haven’t seen you in a bit.”
They continued chatting with him. I found a dirty old navy officer’s hat that had fallen from his head and gave it back to him, then went on my way.
I walked by the ambulance a few moments later and called out: “Good luck, skipper” as they loaded him in.
One of the paramedics corrected me: “He’s not a skipper. He’s a commander.”
Assuming he was a commander, I wish him all the best as Remembrance Day nears. He’s not the classic kind of veteran we pay homage to on Nov. 11. But based on my encounter, he must have run a tight ship. There are a number who served and then floundered and still deserve a nod this time of year.
Just So You Know: I went back to my office and laughed at the story with a friend and that was that.
The next night, I was home and my amused friend called. He was on the same street and saw an old gent fall off a bench. His white officer’s cap had bounced into the gutter and a number of people were rushing over to help. I hope they enjoyed their spelling lesson as much I did.
