So, I went out yesterday, a beautiful, sunny March day, intent on mailing a letter, running some errands; the ever-present camera at hand. I randomly looked across the busy street and happened to see a former patient, sitting casually on the bus stop bench, legs comfortably crossed, drinking from a paper bag. Why did I remember this guy? Frankly, he dwelt among the nameless, vaguely-familiar "cohort" that wandered into our clinic for a variety of reasons - and in my estimation - the least of which was psychotropic medication. But what distinguished this gentleman, actually, was his ZZ Top-bearded side-kick (street-christened, "Smokey"), who upon initial contact with me, pulled from his pants pocket and back-pack 2 massive knives that he pointedly banged on the counter in front of me, thereby heeding the worn sign that forbade "weapons" within the clinic. Now, if you are familiar with the persistently homeless, they tend to "hoard" a tremendous amount of I'm-not-exactly-sure-what in trash & other bags, frequently tied to bicycles and shopping carts. Who, exactly, would inspect these "belongings?" But it was the response of the gentleman in question to my, apparently, amusing reaction to the knives that I recall: being already "unsteady," he laughed so hard he fell down. Approximately 40 minutes later, as I returned to the area, I found him as you see above. Without ranting, the scene is a very busy commericial area, and I am just not surprised to see such a sight so blatantly ignored by the hundreds walking past. Two guys literally cut through the bushes, stepping over the man, to tape signs on a lightpole. He was shallowly breathing, twitching, but otherwise unresponsive to me. Gross spider angioma of the face; swollen hands and ankles; bright red palmar erythema, obvious flexion deformity of the hands, and deformity of the nails & nail beds. Comment of the Chief Resident: "Why are you bothering me with this shit? Banana bag him in the hall & let him sleep it off." I sit on the bench & call 911 who seemed more interested in identifying me - three complete attempts at spelling Starfish - before switching me to paramedics who wanted to instruct me in counting the rising & falling of the gentleman's chest... Thankfully, a police officer, pulling on his blue surgical gloves to the sound of the ambulance but blocks away, sort of mumbled thanks on behalf of the citizenry, and as I moved on, never went closer than 2 yards to my former patient.

And believe it or not, this will all lead to an explanation of how I talked myself out of a job...