The drunk: Romanian scenery 1

I was walking through my small romanian hometown with my mexican wife (she also writes on nepantla). I was feeling quite proud that she cherishes the aesthetical similarities between our geographically and historically distant cultures. There is nothing objectively special about my hometown. It is a generic transylvanian town: a mix between old sachson architecture, communist brutalism, and old abandoned factories. I won’t waste too much time describing it.

We were walking on the street that leads to the train station. It’s a small street, with small buildings. On each side of the street there are small businnesses. On the left there’s a betting place with tinted windows – for some reason all such ‘casinos’ are forced by law to have tinted or covered up windows. The betting place is flanked by small shops. On the right side – where we were walking – there’s a small bar with a small terrace, followed by a store that sells everything imaginable. The store is followed by another bar with no terrace which is followed by a pet store. Now keep in mind that the bars I am talking about are no fancy establishments. They are the tipical cheap bars that invite alcoholism.

The drunk

In front of the second bar, outside on the pavewalk layed a man, unconscious. Inquisitive and a bit worried we go to see what has happened. He isn’t responding. He is dressed all in black and is full of dust. His pants are covered in urine – his own I hope. The smell of alcohol was strong. We looked at each other and wondered what to do. Nobody else in the vicinity seemed worried. I walk in the bar and say to the bartender:

“There’s a man passed out on the street”

No response. They just starred at me in confusion and irritation. By the door was an old man that seemed annoyed at me. It seemed as if I was intruding the monotony of alcohol with my concern. Nevertheless, I insist.

“Do you know him?”

Again, no response. No change in the general tone of their stare.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

I ask in a last attempt to communicate. Suddenly all are engulfed by enthusiasm.

“Yes! Yes you should!”

Shouts the bartender. Even the old man by the door seemed friendlier. I walk outside and call 112 (the emergency number in the EU). They answer and start questioning me about the whole situation. I explain the general context. Then the crucial question pops up.

“Is he responding?”

“No”, i said.

“Have you tried shaking him and wake him up?”

“No”, i said again.

“Well do that! you need to ask him if he wants to be taken to the hospital. If he doesn’t we are not allowed to take him.”

The conflict

At this point a conflict arises in me. I want to help him but I also don’t want to touch him – please remeber that he was covered in urine. Faced with this dilemma I was stuck. I froze. Luckily for me, and unfortunately for the drunk, an aquaintace of him shows up. This moment in time is crucial. The aquaintace doesn’t appear as people normally do. Insted he sweeps in like a tornado, grabing the man by his hair and beginning to slap his face repeatedly.

His slaps felt and seemed like a well coordinated exchange of serves at a Grand Slam. The drunk’s head moved accordingly. He didn’t say anything, he just slapped him. We reacted and tried to help him – while talking on the phone. But before anything else could further develop, the drunk regained consiousness. The slaps had woken him up. Now, he didn’t wake up friendly, but in a general state of confusion and anger addressed at the slapping hand. However, due to his confusion he didn’t actually know who was slapping him. Accordingly, he started to look around and identify a cause of his misery. In this brief moment he glanced upon my wife.

Completely enraveled by her he suddenly forgets the slaps – even though the slaps didn’t forget him – and he smiles and winks. He winks at my wife in the most flirtatious manner possible – all while being slapped, covered in urine, and in a semi-coma state.

The ambulance and the absurd

At this point I step in and chase the slapper away. The drunken man shouts a series of deeply insulting words to assert the glory of his survival. I ask him:

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

He mumbles yes and fades out. The emergency operator sends an ambulance and tells me I have to stay at the scene until the ambulance arrives.

At this point in the story, the people around me start to shout unexpected things:

“You shouldn’t have called the ambulance!”

“He does this at least once a week”

“What a waste of gasoline” (for the ambulance).

……

I start to shout back at them in a really awkward manner, trying to tell them how inhumane they are. It had no efect. In the meantime however the ambulance arrives and I feel relieved. What a mistake that feeling was!

The doctor asks aggressively:

“Who called us?”

“I did”, I respond.

He looks at me with a disgust so powerful I could feel the stench of his inner vomit.

“Was that wrong?” I ask.

“You’re free to go” he tells me, without further explanation.

The drunk was being scoldered by the intervention team, that seemed to know him quite well. While he was being hoisted up in the ambulance he looked at us again and smiled. Then, in a last show of force and resiliation, he winks again at my wife.