Proportionate response, or, How I spent my tax money tonight

[muckefuck]

monshu, bless his soul, could see I was in need of some cheering up tonight, so he set aside his own complaints (that cracked rib being in no hurry to heal) and took me out to dinner at Massouleh over on Clark. We stuffed ourselves too full for the Persian ice cream, but I did treat myself to a mamey bar from a paletera on the way back. The stroll was gorgeous both coming and going. People's gardens were alive with bluebells, azaleas, tulips, periwinkle, Dutchman's breeches, bleeding hearts, variegated violets, cherries, crabapples, sweet woodruff, and several flowering herbs and shrubs I couldn't even identify. As we approached our, the golden rays of the setting sun were illuminating the red brick opposite our fireplace and I was feeling at peace with the world and my choices for the first time in damn near 24 hours.

Then I noticed a man sitting on our windowsill.

For those who haven't been to the house, I should explain: We live in a duplex down. This means that our den and bedrooms are located mostly below grade, with windowsills about five feet up from the floor. This puts them only a few inches above the level of the sidewalk. The guy was perched on one with his hands crossed over his knees and his head hanging down. I went up and tried to get his attention, but he wouldn't respond to anything I said in either English or Spanish. I went so far as to nudge his shoulder and tap his boot with my foot. This elicited nothing except some slight snoring. I walked away and observed him for a bit, but he appeared not to be faking.

I debated for a while what to do next. I opened the window behind him and tried yelling again. Finally, I reluctantly concluded that this exactly the sort of complaint they always exhorted us to call 311 for during the CAPS meetings. I felt bad--I mean, he's just a poor tired man looking for a place to rest. But he'd chosen to do it on private property, where I think I have a reasonable expectation of being able to fold laundry without having to look up at some stranger's ass.

The operator gave me to a dispatcher, who tranferred me to the fire department. "I don't know why they gave me to you," I told the woman. "It's just a guy sleeping on the windowsill." "Was he bleeding?" "No, there's nothing visibly wrong with him. He's just asleep." "They'll be there right away," she told me. She wasn't kidding: Within five minutes, a fire engine pulled up in front of the building. I went out to meet it and repeated to the first firefighter I saw what I had told the woman, adding "It's just one guy, I don't know why they sent a fire engine." "Actually, they sent an ambulance," he said, and sure enough, I noticed one parked behind the engine.

At this point, I went back in and returned to my folding. As I watched through the panes, three members of the EMS crew lifted the guy to his feet and gently hustled him down to the corner; he wasn't able to offer more than token resistance. As they disappeared into the vehicle, a patrol car pulled up behind it and, later, a paddy wagon as well. About this time, the ambulance drove off, sirens screaming. So, for those of you keeping score, that's four vehicles with a total crew of at least fourteen people to take care of one bum sitting on my window. So when property taxes jump another 30% and cigarettes are $15 a pack, you can all blame me and my bourgeois intolerance of the homeless.

Comments

[nibadi.livejournal.com]

Als ehemaliger Messdiener und Kirchensteuerzahler erteile ich dir Absolution. Nein, ganz im Ernst, beruhige dein schlechtes Gewissen. Muss man denn als arbeitender Mensch alles ertragen? Am Ende benutzen die Armen den Hauseingang nur als Toilette, weil sich gerade nichts anderes fand. Ich weiss, das hört sich schrecklich an, aber ich will diese Toleranz für alles und jenes nicht aufbringen.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Glaub mir, genau das Szenario ist mir ja durch den Kopf geschossen!