I left play practice in Little 5 Points last night about 8:30, heading to my parking place in the back of the shops, and found a guy lying on his back next to my car, his hands up around his face.
This guy looked a rough character, tattoos all over his wiry muscled arms, long stringy hair, beard and mustache, weathered face, street tan. He could have been anywhere from mid 30's to late 40's. Hippie street life does that to you, I think. But something had laid him low.
So I approached him, and asked him, "Hey, why are you lying there?"
"Somebody maced me," he said.
I thought for a second. Mace is marketed as the great equalizer, enabling helpless young women to fend off attackers or anyone who's bothering them. What if this guy had gotten just exactly what he deserved? I reserved judgment, though, and decided to help this guy out of the traffic lane. I'm a big guy, after all, and can take care of myself. I figured if this guy showed any signs of sudden recovery, I could probably put him in his place. Nothing like that happened, though.
"Let's get you up. You're lying in the middle of the parking lot," I said.
"OK."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Frank."
He tried to get up and it was a sad sight. He was staggering and off balance. I couldn't tell if he was drunk or just in agony, but he did sort of steady up later on. About this time another guy walked up, and asked what happened. "Somebody maced this guy," I said. "Why don't you see if you can find something to give him some relief."
"OK," he said, and he was off like a shot. Before I could get Frank a few more steps, he was back with a large tumbler of water. He introduced himself as Jimbo and said to Frank, "We're going to put this on your face, maybe it will make you feel better," and without further ado poured it down.
I looked at Jimbo. Like Frank, he was dressed in dirty clothes and had the look of the streets about him. Maybe a little too much whiskey or something else.
Frank took this with good grace but his eyes were in sad shape. They were swollen shut tight and he wasn't going to be feeling much better for awhile. "Frank, is there anyone you want me to call?" I asked as we made our way to a spot where he could sit down.
"No."
"Can I go get somebody for you?"
"No."
"Do you work nearby?"
"Yes."
"Let me go get somebody from your work to help you out. Where do you work?"
"Yacht Club." (A nearby watering hole.)
"OK, who should I ask for?"
"Troy."
"Troy at the Yacht Club, got it," I said, ready to go find help.
But as I turned away, Frank's voice, resigned and weary, stopped me. "There's no Troy at the Yacht Club," he said. This was the point at which my heart sort of broke.
"Oh. OK."
We waited in the shade of the tree, commiserating with Frank. Jimbo and I both shared that we had been exposed to CS gas in the service as part of our training, that it was no fun but we got over it, and that it was mainly a matter of time but Frank would surely get better. About that time an older man pushing a trash can ambled past. "Do you know Frank?" I asked.
"Yeah, I work with him," said the old man. Yet another whiskey-whipped face. Welcome to Little 5 Points.
"OK, well, somebody maced him," I said.
The old man, who introduced himself as Jimmy, came to help. "What happened?" he asked Frank.
"I was out back of the club, some kids were driving real fast back here and I told them to slow the fuck down, there's people walking around, and they just fuckin' maced me," he said.
"God," I said.
"Was anybody helping him?" Jimbo asked me.
"No, but I think I was about the first to come up on him," I said. "Anyway, people are scared. You know how it is."
I admit, I was scared at first. What if this guy had attacked somebody and gotten maced for his troubles? I didn't have any reason not to believe his story, but then again I could be hopelessly naive.
I thought of Bishop Mano, who had told us that morning of "Smelling the sweat of the enemy." I actually sniffed--Frank didn't smell any worse or better than any of us. I thought of the Taleban receiving help at Bishop Mano's hospital in Peshawar. I thought, "I'm not at war with this guy. Whatever really happened, he's paying a heavy price. His friends seem like nice, decent fellows. I think my work here is done."
So I left him in the hands of his friends and went home.
UPDATE 06/18/07:
I've spoken with Jimbo several times since this incident. There's probably another post in that, eventually. But I thought I'd tell you what he told me about Frank. Basically, Frank got exactly what he deserved. He apparently told Jimbo after I left them that he had stopped a car with a young couple in it and tried to cadge some change or something from them. There was a pretty young woman in the car and Frank "touched" her. That's when he got maced.
Would I have acted differently if I had known that macing was just what this guy needed? I actually hope not. Macing seems a pretty fair price to pay for what he did. Why pile on by not giving a damn about him?