And I was like, I can’t deal with this, I can not deal with this, so I went and locked myself in the bathroom and waited for him to leave. And a little while later I heard this thump and I thought, front door, thank God, even though the sound wasn’t right for that. So I gave it another ten minutes and came out, holding this toilet plunger like a club.
I did a sweep of the apartment. Kitchen: empty. Good. Living room: empty. Good. Bedroom: empty? The futon was empty, but the bedclothes were heaped in a pile on the floor on the far side, and then I saw this foot sticking out. “Oh, shit.”
Some instinct made me look over at the dresser. My drug-stash box was open. Marijuana was scattered all over the dresser top, and the pill bag had been turned inside out. “Oh, shit.”
I ran to him and dug him out from under the sheets and blankets. He was facedown, unconscious, and he’d thrown up at least once, but thank God he hadn’t choked on it—he was breathing, he still had a pulse. As I slapped his face to try to revive him, I ran a mental inventory of what had been in that pill bag: uppers and downers mostly—hopefully they’d counteract each other—but also some mescaline tabs I’d been saving for my last day in town. Not the healthiest mix.
The kid’s cheeks were raw from the slapping but he wasn’t waking up. His breathing was getting sketchy, and I realized I was going to have to call an ambulance. I dithered, trying to come up with an alternative.
How long?
Three, four minutes, tops—I swear—but this kid, he wasn’t growing any new brain cells in the meantime, you know what I’m saying? At least I didn’t try to put him under the shower—I knew from experience that doesn’t work—but still…
Anyway, I finally called 911. The dispatcher came on: “What’s your emergency?” And I’m like, “Accidental drug overdose…” She went through the standard Q&A—“What kind of drugs?” “Is he conscious?” “Have you checked his airway?”—and then she asked me where I was located. This was back before they had caller I.D., right? So I was about to tell her, but then I took another look at my dresser, at all that dope scattered around.
And the dispatcher said, “Miss? Are you there?” And I said, “Yeah, I’m here,” and gave her the address of the building across the street. And she’s like, “Is that an apartment building?” and I said, “Yeah, I think so,” and she said, “You think so?” and I said, “I mean it is—just hurry up and get here, OK?” And she said, sounding skeptical now, “What’s the apartment number?” and I told her, “Don’t worry about it. Tell the paramedics I’ll meet them on the sidewalk.” I hung up before she could argue.
The hospital was six blocks away, so I had like zero time. The one small blessing was that the kid had put his clothes back on before he took the pills, so I thought, At least it won’t be obvious what we were up to. I forgot that I wasn’t dressed…I wrapped him in a blanket and used it to drag him—no way could I carry him—and on the way out of the bedroom I bumped into the dresser. A bunch of stuff fell off, including a Valium that he’d missed. I popped that right away, thinking I was definitely going to need it.
I dragged him out the door and down three flights of stairs. I must’ve banged up his legs and his tailbone pretty bad, but there was nothing I could do about that—I was busy making sure he didn’t hit his head, and at every landing I had to stop and check that he hadn’t swallowed his tongue. Then one landing from the bottom I heard this click, an apartment door opened up, and this old Ukrainian lady who was always giving me dirty looks came out to see what the racket was about. And I, I was beyond reason at this point, I just smiled at her and said something like: “Allergy attack…Doctor’s on his way…Nothing to worry about!” She made this little, like, warding gesture with her hands, and shut the door again.
So I got the kid down to the lobby—my back was killing me by now—and of course the ambulance was already outside, and the paramedics were talking to the super of the building across the street. I dragged the kid out onto the stoop and started shouting, “Hey, over here!” and as everybody turned to look, I felt this breeze, and that’s when I realized, I was still wearing nothing but my kimono, and it was flapping open in front, and I’m like, Oh great.
The paramedics came running. They got the kid unwrapped, started checking him over, and we did another Q&A: “What did he take? What did he take?” One of the paramedics, he was all about saving the kid, and I liked that, that he barely even looked at me. The other one though, he was older, beard stubble, he did look at me, and he was pissed. He said: “Why did you give the dispatcher the wrong address? Are you too high to remember where you live, or are you just scared?” And I’m like, “I don’t live here,” and he’s like, “Yeah, right.”
Then the other paramedic—he’d been listening to the kid’s heart with a stethoscope—said, “We’ve got to go, now.” So they put the kid on a stretcher, and I knew I should just shut up, be invisible, but as they were bundling him into the back of the ambulance, I said, “Is he going to be OK?” And the angry paramedic looked at me again, and said, “You want to come to the hospital with us? Or do you want to hide?” And I pinched the front of my kimono closed, and said, “I’ve got to get some clothes on…” And he’s like: “Yeah, right.”
They got into the ambulance, and as they were driving away, I saw the angry paramedic on the radio, talking to somebody, and I was like, if the Ukrainian lady hasn’t called the police already…
I ran back upstairs and got dressed. I took a plastic bag and swept as much of the marijuana as I could into it, and hid it in the back of a closet along with my drug-stash box. Then I got out—I thought I heard a siren outside, so I left by the fire escape—and stayed out.
I called Carlotta and asked if it was OK if I came a few days early. She said sure, so I got a car, some boxes, and a little extra Valium, and after midnight I went back to my apartment to pack. I just took the essentials—I had to leave the furniture behind, but that was OK, most of it wasn’t paid for anyway.
As I was packing, Phil showed up.
In the middle of the night?
Yeah, I told you, he had a knack for knowing when I needed him. “Phil,” I said, “I think I really fucked up here.” And he was like, “Yeah, I tried to warn you…” And then he just sat there, looking sad, which got me packing even faster. By sunup I was done, and by early that morning I was in Bodega Bay. End of story.
You never called the hospital to find out what happened to the boy?
It’s not malfeasance if you behave like a decent human being. The way I thought about it was like this: aside from the Officer Friendly types, cops are generally lazy, and tracking me to Carlotta’s would be difficult enough that they probably wouldn’t go to the trouble unless the kid died. So it followed that if I didn’t hear from the cops, he must be OK…And I never did hear from them. Even after I came back to S.F. — you know, I had other scrapes with the police after that, but the thing with the street preacher never came up. So I told myself I’d dodged a bullet, and swore I’d learned my lesson.
And had you?
Hey, after that day? It was a year and a half before I had sex with anyone again, and when I did, the guy was like thirty-five—a mature thirty-five.
So like I said, I counted myself lucky, and moved on. I tried to forget it had ever happened, you know? But Panopticon never forgets. They miss stuff, or misfile it, but if they know about it at all, they never really forget…And when the truth finally comes back around, all those excuses you thought were so clever end up sounding like the bullshit that they are.
So I finished my story and stood there staring at the video wall—it was all just Owen Farley’s picture, now—while I waited for Dixon to pass final judgment. But Dixon was waiting too, looking my way but focused on a point a half inch in front of his right eye. The little computer screen flickered like mad, and my wrist was tingling so much my hand had gone numb.