Won't you come home, Bill Bailey?
When I get to know new people, I tell them stories, not surprisingly. However, the nature of the stories can be surprising because I do not look like a person who would have very many wild stories, and yet, somehow, I do. Sometimes I start with stories from more than ten years ago, because they are by far the oddest, and if I can get through them without causing people to run for the door, I am probably home free. However, even now, when I am cautious and respectable, odd events happen around me, and I plunge right in and do nothing to make the world more normal.
My mother claims that I am the reason why my parents have gray hair. Apparently it has nothing to do with being 60 years old. 95% of the gray hairs came from me, and 5% from my brother when he was 16 and 17.
Here is a story from long after I became a respectable model citizen. I was living in Providence, Rhode Island, and my friends Lara and Steve came to visit me from Washington, D.C. I picked them up at the airport and took them to meet a mutual friend for a drink, but we arrived early and did not immediately find parking, so we swung around through India Point Park, my intent being to turn around and come back to find a parking place.
India Point Park is not a place where one wants to get out of the car after dark, but it is generally safe enough to drive through. However, we ended up getting out of the car. Steve spotted a shape in the darkness, and it proved to be a man dragging a woman by her feet. When he pointed this out to me, I stopped the car. Lara and I got out, and I told Steve to watch the car.
It appeared to me that the woman was unconscious, and the man had chosen an extremely awkward method of transporting her, so, not wanting to be confrontational, I asked him if he needed any help. Lara smiled her utterly irresistible smile of pure, unadulterated charm, and the two of us tried to look as innocuous as possible. The man said he did not need help, but Lara worked her way over to the woman, who was in fact conscious and resisting. The man offered us a brief profane tirade concerning certain women (not us in particular) bearing the same title as female dogs.
I rather stupidly asked the woman directly if she wanted us to call 911, and she said “YES!” which made the man panic. Steve came running over. Luckily, the man did nothing violent, only berated the woman for trying to get him in trouble with the cops, and he drove away in his van.
Meanwhile, I was on the phone with the 911 operator, who did not want to send over a car. I said that the woman needed an ambulance, or at the very least a ride home. The operator said they don’t give rides home. I said okay, in that case she needs an ambulance. The operator wanted to know if she had ASKED me to call 911, as if I was meddling where I did not belong and I had no right to call 911 unless the victim requested it. However, I said yes, she had asked me to call.
The operator asked where I was, and I said India Point Park. The operator said they could not send a car without a street address. I said India Point Park was a major city park. In desperation, I gave street directions for getting there: Go down Gano Street to the very end, then turn left. Okay, the operator accepted this as a street address. Then the operator wanted to know if there was a fire. No, I said, there was a medical problem and possible crime.
Finally we settled it that someone would be sent to the park, and I turned my attention back to the scene. Lara was comforting the woman and finding out her name and other important information. The woman was dirty from head to toe and wearing no shoes or socks. She did have on a pair of bunched-up black underpants under a white dress. Her hair was a mess, and she was crying and shaking. After 10 minutes or so she started to convulse.
After about another 5 minutes a fire truck arrived, but it turned right at the end of the road and vanished. A couple minutes later a police car arrived, making the correct left turn, and soon after that an ambulance, then the fire truck. The police officer questioned Lara and the woman. The woman was able to tell him the name of the man. Let’s say it was Beetle Bailey, because that’s a pretty far cry from his real name, but his real name also belonged to a fictional character. “Oh, I know him," said the officer. "His whole family’s f---ed up.” We confirmed that there was no clear evidence that any crime had been committed, but that this woman obviously needed a doctor.
As the paramedics wrapped the woman on a stretcher and carried her away, another police car arrived. “It was Beetle Bailey,” said the first officer. “Oh, I know him,” quipped the second, “he wears a lot of olive drab...”
Our mystery woman received her medical care, none of us was hurt, we all downed a couple of beers by the hurricane barrier, and we never saw any of our India Point Park acquaintance again. Steve decided that I am the best tour guide ever: “I’m in town for 30 minutes, and already I’m fighting crime! What’s next, a trip to the Margo cave?”
My mother claims that I am the reason why my parents have gray hair. Apparently it has nothing to do with being 60 years old. 95% of the gray hairs came from me, and 5% from my brother when he was 16 and 17.
Here is a story from long after I became a respectable model citizen. I was living in Providence, Rhode Island, and my friends Lara and Steve came to visit me from Washington, D.C. I picked them up at the airport and took them to meet a mutual friend for a drink, but we arrived early and did not immediately find parking, so we swung around through India Point Park, my intent being to turn around and come back to find a parking place.
India Point Park is not a place where one wants to get out of the car after dark, but it is generally safe enough to drive through. However, we ended up getting out of the car. Steve spotted a shape in the darkness, and it proved to be a man dragging a woman by her feet. When he pointed this out to me, I stopped the car. Lara and I got out, and I told Steve to watch the car.
It appeared to me that the woman was unconscious, and the man had chosen an extremely awkward method of transporting her, so, not wanting to be confrontational, I asked him if he needed any help. Lara smiled her utterly irresistible smile of pure, unadulterated charm, and the two of us tried to look as innocuous as possible. The man said he did not need help, but Lara worked her way over to the woman, who was in fact conscious and resisting. The man offered us a brief profane tirade concerning certain women (not us in particular) bearing the same title as female dogs.
I rather stupidly asked the woman directly if she wanted us to call 911, and she said “YES!” which made the man panic. Steve came running over. Luckily, the man did nothing violent, only berated the woman for trying to get him in trouble with the cops, and he drove away in his van.
Meanwhile, I was on the phone with the 911 operator, who did not want to send over a car. I said that the woman needed an ambulance, or at the very least a ride home. The operator said they don’t give rides home. I said okay, in that case she needs an ambulance. The operator wanted to know if she had ASKED me to call 911, as if I was meddling where I did not belong and I had no right to call 911 unless the victim requested it. However, I said yes, she had asked me to call.
The operator asked where I was, and I said India Point Park. The operator said they could not send a car without a street address. I said India Point Park was a major city park. In desperation, I gave street directions for getting there: Go down Gano Street to the very end, then turn left. Okay, the operator accepted this as a street address. Then the operator wanted to know if there was a fire. No, I said, there was a medical problem and possible crime.
Finally we settled it that someone would be sent to the park, and I turned my attention back to the scene. Lara was comforting the woman and finding out her name and other important information. The woman was dirty from head to toe and wearing no shoes or socks. She did have on a pair of bunched-up black underpants under a white dress. Her hair was a mess, and she was crying and shaking. After 10 minutes or so she started to convulse.
After about another 5 minutes a fire truck arrived, but it turned right at the end of the road and vanished. A couple minutes later a police car arrived, making the correct left turn, and soon after that an ambulance, then the fire truck. The police officer questioned Lara and the woman. The woman was able to tell him the name of the man. Let’s say it was Beetle Bailey, because that’s a pretty far cry from his real name, but his real name also belonged to a fictional character. “Oh, I know him," said the officer. "His whole family’s f---ed up.” We confirmed that there was no clear evidence that any crime had been committed, but that this woman obviously needed a doctor.
As the paramedics wrapped the woman on a stretcher and carried her away, another police car arrived. “It was Beetle Bailey,” said the first officer. “Oh, I know him,” quipped the second, “he wears a lot of olive drab...”
Our mystery woman received her medical care, none of us was hurt, we all downed a couple of beers by the hurricane barrier, and we never saw any of our India Point Park acquaintance again. Steve decided that I am the best tour guide ever: “I’m in town for 30 minutes, and already I’m fighting crime! What’s next, a trip to the Margo cave?”
posted by Margo at 4:30 PM
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