hadn't come out of the bedroom. Outside, the wind had picked up, and now it looked like the clouds were falling right out of the sky on top of us.
"Wyman said he was going to give me some money," I told Jesse.
"No," she said, shaking her head. She pushed me out onto the step and kept repeating the word for the entire time it took her to close the door and lock it. "No no no no no no no no no no."
----
IT'S NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY By Peter Darbyshire
----
I WAS ON MY WAY to the liquor store when I passed him for the first time. An old man, fifty, maybe sixty, hard to tell exactly because his hair covered most of his face. He was lying asleep on the sidewalk outside the Happy Harbour, a bar where the lights were so dim it looked as if the people inside were underwater. He was right in front of the door, the way you sometimes see dogs outside a place, and drops of water from an air conditioner in a window overhead were falling onto his chest. He was wearing wool pants and two ski jackets, even though the day was so hot it felt like we were being sucked into the sun. And there was a little margarine container beside his hand, with some pieces of bread inside it.
The liquor store was at the end of the street. People lay in the passenger seats of the cars outside, eyes closed like they were unconscious. I spent the last of my money on two six-packs of the most expensive beer they had. Kennedy had called that afternoon to invite me to his wedding. He'd said that Rachel was going to be there. I thought she might call.
The man was still there when I came back from the liquor store, only now there was a woman with him. She was young, twenty or twenty-two, and she was wearing amber sunglasses and a Calvin Klein baseball cap. When I walked up, she was shaking him and saying, "Are you there? Are you there?" I tried to walk past, but she looked right at me. "I can't wake him up," she said.
I suddenly felt guilty, like it was my fault he was lying there, and I stopped. "He's probably just drunk," I told her. "I wouldn't worry about it."
"He shouldn't be sleeping in the sun," she said. She looked around and shook her head at the passing cars. "I can't believe people just let him lie here."
"I'm sure he's all right," I said. "Otherwise someone would have stopped by now."
When she brushed the hair out of his face, though, it was clear he hadn't been all right in some time. His face was a mask of broken blood vessels, and yellowish drool coated his chin. He looked as if he'd exploded inside. The woman stroked the side of his face, but he didn't even twitch an eyelid. "Who knows how long he's been lying here," the woman said. "With people just walking past."
"It looks like he's breathing regular," I said. "If he's breathing regular, then he's probably just sleeping."
She looked up at me and squinted a little through her sunglasses, like she was concentrating. Then she stared back down at him. "We should call someone," she said. "Paramedics or somebody like that. They'll take him to a shelter. Someplace cool, where he can sleep and not have to worry about exposure."
Her choice of words implied I was in this with her, so I put my beer down in the shade at the side of the building and squatted down on the other side of the man. I studied his chest for a moment. It didn't move much, but when it did, it was regular. I thought about shaking him myself, but I didn't really want to touch him.
"We should call someone," the woman said again. When I looked at her, I saw her skin was all flushed and she was shaking a little. She kept biting her lower lip, like she was actually worried about this man.
I thought about Rachel calling, maybe right at this very moment. And then I thought about answering the phone and telling her how I'd saved the life of someone I didn't even know.
----
THE AIR INSIDE the Happy Harbour was cool and wet. There were five or six men sitting around a table in the middle of the room, with maybe two dozen beer bottles
"Wyman said he was going to give me some money," I told Jesse.
"No," she said, shaking her head. She pushed me out onto the step and kept repeating the word for the entire time it took her to close the door and lock it. "No no no no no no no no no no."
----
IT'S NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY By Peter Darbyshire
----
I WAS ON MY WAY to the liquor store when I passed him for the first time. An old man, fifty, maybe sixty, hard to tell exactly because his hair covered most of his face. He was lying asleep on the sidewalk outside the Happy Harbour, a bar where the lights were so dim it looked as if the people inside were underwater. He was right in front of the door, the way you sometimes see dogs outside a place, and drops of water from an air conditioner in a window overhead were falling onto his chest. He was wearing wool pants and two ski jackets, even though the day was so hot it felt like we were being sucked into the sun. And there was a little margarine container beside his hand, with some pieces of bread inside it.
The liquor store was at the end of the street. People lay in the passenger seats of the cars outside, eyes closed like they were unconscious. I spent the last of my money on two six-packs of the most expensive beer they had. Kennedy had called that afternoon to invite me to his wedding. He'd said that Rachel was going to be there. I thought she might call.
The man was still there when I came back from the liquor store, only now there was a woman with him. She was young, twenty or twenty-two, and she was wearing amber sunglasses and a Calvin Klein baseball cap. When I walked up, she was shaking him and saying, "Are you there? Are you there?" I tried to walk past, but she looked right at me. "I can't wake him up," she said.
I suddenly felt guilty, like it was my fault he was lying there, and I stopped. "He's probably just drunk," I told her. "I wouldn't worry about it."
"He shouldn't be sleeping in the sun," she said. She looked around and shook her head at the passing cars. "I can't believe people just let him lie here."
"I'm sure he's all right," I said. "Otherwise someone would have stopped by now."
When she brushed the hair out of his face, though, it was clear he hadn't been all right in some time. His face was a mask of broken blood vessels, and yellowish drool coated his chin. He looked as if he'd exploded inside. The woman stroked the side of his face, but he didn't even twitch an eyelid. "Who knows how long he's been lying here," the woman said. "With people just walking past."
"It looks like he's breathing regular," I said. "If he's breathing regular, then he's probably just sleeping."
She looked up at me and squinted a little through her sunglasses, like she was concentrating. Then she stared back down at him. "We should call someone," she said. "Paramedics or somebody like that. They'll take him to a shelter. Someplace cool, where he can sleep and not have to worry about exposure."
Her choice of words implied I was in this with her, so I put my beer down in the shade at the side of the building and squatted down on the other side of the man. I studied his chest for a moment. It didn't move much, but when it did, it was regular. I thought about shaking him myself, but I didn't really want to touch him.
"We should call someone," the woman said again. When I looked at her, I saw her skin was all flushed and she was shaking a little. She kept biting her lower lip, like she was actually worried about this man.
I thought about Rachel calling, maybe right at this very moment. And then I thought about answering the phone and telling her how I'd saved the life of someone I didn't even know.
----
THE AIR INSIDE the Happy Harbour was cool and wet. There were five or six men sitting around a table in the middle of the room, with maybe two dozen beer bottles
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