By Michael Morse
He shuffles toward the rescue, no particular hurry; he’s got nothing much to do. It’s ten o’clock on a Thursday Night, he’s out of money, the buzz from the half is wearing off and he’s hungry. He has that wary look about him, not quite knowing what to expect from the people he called for help. I’m sure it’s not his first such call, or second, or twentieth.
“What’s going on, buddy, we got a call for an elderly man with chest pains at the bus station. Can’t be you, you’re too old to be elderly.”
“You got that right,” he says with half a smile. “I’m way past elderly, got one foot in the grave,”
“You look like crap. Come on; let’s get out of the cold.” It’s freezing. He’s freezing. I’m starting to freeze.
“Sit over here and take off your coat, uh…coats.”
He settles in. The homeless have one way of moving. Slow. One coat comes off, then the other. Slowly.
“Are you in pain?”
“My chest hurts. Got the pneumonia. Had it going on two years now, can’t shake it.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-six.”
“No kidding, you don’t look a day over seventy-six.”
He laughs at that, a good, belly laugh. The strength of the human spirit never fails to amaze me. Here’s a man who by most standards should be in the depth of despair, yet finds humor in a wiseguy firefighter making some extra cash for the holidays by working overtime on “the bus.”
He sees through me, and knows I’m actually bonding with him, making him feel like one of the rest of us by treating him like I would an old friend. Men have a strange way of communicating, homeless or not. We’re not comfortable with sentimental gestures and overly caring other men. That stuff makes us feel weird. A good natured insult puts us at peace much more effectively.
“What have you been drinking, cough syrup?” This elicits another laugh, though not so hearty.
“Whisky.”
“Good whisky?”
“Is there any other?”
“Guess not.”
He’s from New London, a city in Connecticut. He doesn’t know how he got to Providence. He does know that a ‘nice lady’ gave him ten dollars for bus fare back to New London hours ago, but he bought himself a decent sandwich and half pint of whiskey instead.
There will be another nice lady or two tomorrow, maybe he’ll get back to New London then.
I’ve got a nice lady at home, waiting for me to finish my shift so we can spend some time together. Working with the homeless makes me realize just how much I want to keep what I have.
Michael Morse is a former captain with the Providence (RI) Fire Department (PFD), an author, and a popular columnist. He served on PFD’s Engine Co. 2., Engine Co. 9, and Ladder Co. 4 for 10 years prior to becoming an EMT-C on Rescue Co 1 and Captain of Rescue Co. 5.
