occupying the spaces between them. I didn't recognize any of the labels on the bottles. The men looked away from the television over the bar and at us as we entered, and their conversation drifted away, if there had been one in the first place. Then one of them, an old man with no front teeth, took off his John Deere cap and slapped the empty chair beside him with it. "Plenty of room here," he said. He was looking directly at the woman. The others didn't say anything, just looked at us with eyes that reminded me of dead fish.
We went over to the bar, where a Korean man wearing mirrored sunglasses was sitting on a stool, reading the paper.
"There's an unconscious man in front of your bar," I told him.
"Yeah, he's been there for about half an hour," he said. He didn't look up from the paper.
"And you just left him there?" the woman asked.
Now he stared at her. She looked into his glasses for a moment, then at me, then down at the floor. But that look had put me in charge.
"He wasn't drinking here," the Korean guy said. "It's not my ..." He searched for the word. "Responsibility."
"Maybe he just needs a kiss, darling," the man in the John Deere cap said. "Like Prince Charming." His laugh turned into a long series of coughs. No one else at the table made a sound. They stared at us like they were all mute. And they weren't all old either. There was a man in a UPS uniform who looked like he was around my age, and there was another man in shorts and a T-shirt who looked like he couldn't even have been legal drinking age yet. For some reason, he kept grinning at us.
"We need to call the police," I told the Korean guy. "Otherwise he could die or something. Because of the heat and all."
"He wasn't drinking here," the Korean guy said again and returned to the paper.
I looked at the woman. I was hoping that she'd tell me to forget it, that she'd walk outside and down the street without once looking back. We'd tried, at least. But she kept on staring at the floor.
We went over to the pay phone in the corner and I dropped in a quarter, dialed 911. We both watched the traffic outside as I waited for someone to pick up. A postman walked past the man outside without even glancing down at him. A woman answered after the third ring. "911," she said. She was laughing about something. "Do you need the police, ambulance or fire department?"
"I need somebody to take away an unconscious man," I said.
"One moment please." I waited through three more rings. A couple of the men at the table - the young guy and an old black guy who looked as if he'd been a weightlifter once but now seemed to be the victim of some sort of slow, flesh-eating disease - were still watching us. They were whispering back and forth and nodding at each other.
"Ambulance services," another woman said in my ear. "How can I help you?"
"There's an unconscious man on the sidewalk," I said. "I tried to wake him up, but he's out cold. He's been there for hours."
"How old is he?"
"Oh, he's old, maybe fifty or sixty."
The woman on the other end laughed. "You call that old?"
"What?"
"Never mind," she said. "Just give me the location."
I told her the address and then hung up. "Okay, help is on the way," I said. We went outside again and waited by the old man. The people driving past looked at us, looked at him lying there, but no one stopped.
After a while, the black man came out of the bar and stretched. I could hear his joints popping. Then he gently took hold of the old man's arms and dragged him a few feet to the side of the doorway, up against the wall of the neighbouring convenience store. "Gus doesn't want him on the property," he explained to us with a shy smile, before going back inside.
"He shouldn't have moved him," the woman said. "You're not supposed to move people when you don't know what's wrong with them."
"I think that's only for people with broken backs and stuff like that," I said. "I think this guy's problems are far different from that."
I
We went over to the bar, where a Korean man wearing mirrored sunglasses was sitting on a stool, reading the paper.
"There's an unconscious man in front of your bar," I told him.
"Yeah, he's been there for about half an hour," he said. He didn't look up from the paper.
"And you just left him there?" the woman asked.
Now he stared at her. She looked into his glasses for a moment, then at me, then down at the floor. But that look had put me in charge.
"He wasn't drinking here," the Korean guy said. "It's not my ..." He searched for the word. "Responsibility."
"Maybe he just needs a kiss, darling," the man in the John Deere cap said. "Like Prince Charming." His laugh turned into a long series of coughs. No one else at the table made a sound. They stared at us like they were all mute. And they weren't all old either. There was a man in a UPS uniform who looked like he was around my age, and there was another man in shorts and a T-shirt who looked like he couldn't even have been legal drinking age yet. For some reason, he kept grinning at us.
"We need to call the police," I told the Korean guy. "Otherwise he could die or something. Because of the heat and all."
"He wasn't drinking here," the Korean guy said again and returned to the paper.
I looked at the woman. I was hoping that she'd tell me to forget it, that she'd walk outside and down the street without once looking back. We'd tried, at least. But she kept on staring at the floor.
We went over to the pay phone in the corner and I dropped in a quarter, dialed 911. We both watched the traffic outside as I waited for someone to pick up. A postman walked past the man outside without even glancing down at him. A woman answered after the third ring. "911," she said. She was laughing about something. "Do you need the police, ambulance or fire department?"
"I need somebody to take away an unconscious man," I said.
"One moment please." I waited through three more rings. A couple of the men at the table - the young guy and an old black guy who looked as if he'd been a weightlifter once but now seemed to be the victim of some sort of slow, flesh-eating disease - were still watching us. They were whispering back and forth and nodding at each other.
"Ambulance services," another woman said in my ear. "How can I help you?"
"There's an unconscious man on the sidewalk," I said. "I tried to wake him up, but he's out cold. He's been there for hours."
"How old is he?"
"Oh, he's old, maybe fifty or sixty."
The woman on the other end laughed. "You call that old?"
"What?"
"Never mind," she said. "Just give me the location."
I told her the address and then hung up. "Okay, help is on the way," I said. We went outside again and waited by the old man. The people driving past looked at us, looked at him lying there, but no one stopped.
After a while, the black man came out of the bar and stretched. I could hear his joints popping. Then he gently took hold of the old man's arms and dragged him a few feet to the side of the doorway, up against the wall of the neighbouring convenience store. "Gus doesn't want him on the property," he explained to us with a shy smile, before going back inside.
"He shouldn't have moved him," the woman said. "You're not supposed to move people when you don't know what's wrong with them."
"I think that's only for people with broken backs and stuff like that," I said. "I think this guy's problems are far different from that."
I
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