Let me start by saying that I’m sure there are perfectly lovely people who live in perfectly respectable neighborhoods who would know exactly what to do if they walked out of their house and found a body lying in their driveway. And now let me say that I am not one of those people.
I was running late for a business trip to Denver, and had barely 90 minutes to make my flight. I threw my suitcase in the car and was about to back out of the garage when I saw a large palm frond at the end of the driveway. The frond was too big to drive over so, muttering, I went to move it.
I was considerably surprised that the palm frond had a face and was wearing a filthy “Abercrombie” t-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was middle aged and was stretched out half in the driveway and half in the street and he looked quite peaceful. There were no signs of distress or trauma, nor was his car visible anywhere. I assumed he was either drunk or high, but then I felt bad that I am so bourgeois that just because he was dirty and passed out in the street that I was jumping to conclusions.
I went back into the house where my partner was drinking coffee. “There’s a body in our driveway,” I said. My partner is very calm in a crisis and he is maddeningly analytical. “Is it a body or a person?” he asked. I did not know there was a difference. “Is he breathing?” asked my partner. “Is he drunk?”
I went back out and squeamishly nudged he palm frond with my toe and it turned out he was a person, not a body. He opened one eye, told me to f— off and rolled over into the street.
I went back into the house. “He told me to leave him alone,” I said, paraphrasing. “So leave him alone,” said my partner, as though solving a petty domestic problem. This was not a possibility. For one thing, I still could not get out of our driveway. For another, I was afraid that a car would come speeding down the street, as they always do, and he would be hurt and I would be blamed and miss my flight. So I called 911.
The 911 operator asked my name and address. She asked me to describe the person. She asked me if he was hurt. Was he sick? Was he drunk? Was he on drugs? Was he allergic to penicillin? I did not know the answer to any of these questions and I was getting impatient. “Does he have a weapon?” she asked. That never occurred to me, and what minimal Good Samaritan feeling I had evaporated. “I don’t know,” I said. “And I am late for a flight. Just send help.”
“Tell me exactly where we can find him?” said the operator. Now I was annoyed. “He is the only person lying in my driveway,” I said. “Are you sure?” said the operator.
By now I saw that the guy had moved to the driveway across the street, so assuming that if he was moving under his own power he was probably OK, I gave the operator his new location and got in the car. The operator said she would send help and thanked me for taking the time to call as though I’d done something noble. I saw no point in telling her I just wanted to get to the airport on time.