The Other Side(70)

The second flight I descend, I tell myself, You are such an asshole.

And then I’m knocking on his door and yelling his name, “Mr. Street, are you okay?”

No answer.

Thinking back, I haven’t seen him in over two months. He hasn’t called with any issues. His cab parked out front hasn’t moved.

I try the doorknob, but it’s locked.

I knock again. “Mr. Street?”

Nothing.

Anxiety has flooded me. I can hear his voice from minutes ago in my head. Do something! my brain screams.

My run back up the stairs is an out-of-body experience. I don’t know how my legs are moving but they are, and by the time I walk back into apartment 3A my lungs are protesting vehemently. I retrieve my keys, padlock and all, and run back down. My legs, lungs, and hands are shaking when I fit my master key into the lock on Mr. Street’s door and push it open.

“Mr. Street?” I yell again.

He’s not in the living room or kitchen, and the bathroom door is open and the small room is empty. Which only leaves the bedroom. When I open the door, I am not prepared for what I’m about to see. There’s a man in the bed who bears only a slight resemblance to the man I last saw months ago. Thin has transformed into gaunt. His eyes are ringed in shadows and sweat sheens his brow. Painful looking sores adorn his face and arms.

“Toby, thank God,” he whispers in a southern drawl I’ve never heard. Looking at him, not only can I hear the desperation, pain, and fear…I can see it. The pairing is shocking.

I find that I’m nodding without making a conscious decision to do so. Frozen where I stand, I ask, “Should I call an ambulance?”

He wheezes and covers his mouth with the sheet to cough. “No, don’t call. Just drive me to Denver General, please.”

“I don’t have a car,” I tell him.

“You can drive my cab; it’s parked right out front,” he says weakly.

“I don’t have a license,” I counter and for the first time in my life, I regret not having one.

He slowly strips back the sheet covering him. Movement is a struggle. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” If he didn’t look so sick, I would swear he’s trying to make a joke.

“I don’t—” I begin, but swallow know how to drive and walk to him with my hands extended so I can help him stand.

Looking at my hands, he pauses and speaks to them like he can’t look me in the eye. “You should know that I have AIDS, Toby. Most people don’t want to touch—”

Without hesitation, I cut him off with a whisper, “I’m not most people,” as I grasp his hands with mine and hoist him to his feet. I don’t think he’s ever liked me, so I assume he agrees with what he interpreted as a sardonic reply. But when he’s upright and his eyes are almost even with mine, they’re shining with unshed tears.

I can’t take seeing the tears, so I shift to his side and wrap my arm around his waist to keep him upright. He’s weak, so weak. He lifts his arm behind me and cups my shoulder with his hand, but the pressure is slight, his strength is gone.

“Where are your keys and wallet?” I ask. And then I add, “Do you need anything else?” because I can’t think straight immersed in this crisis. Adrenaline is making motion possible, but my mind is static.

“My keys and wallet are on the table by the front door.” A raspy, damp cough is expelled into his free hand before he can continue. “I don’t need anything else.”

I nod because all I’m focused on now is getting him out to his car and to the hospital as soon as possible. His cough sounds awful and his skin, now that I’m looking at it up close, has a grayish cast to it.

Bearing his weight as we walk down the porch steps to the car isn’t a burden at all. He weighs nothing. He’s a framework of bones his clothes hang from. In the car safely, I run around and unlock the driver’s door and jump in. I’ve ridden in cars on occasion, I understand the mechanics of driving even though I’ve never been behind the wheel. And it looks like literally having someone’s life in my hands puts doubt on the backburner for the moment. Pulling out into the northbound lane of Clarkson, I ease the gas pedal down gently at first to gauge its touchiness. From there, the short drive to Denver General Hospital is a blur of intense concentration on the road and the acute emergency in the seat next to me. His breathing is shallower now than it was inside his apartment and I wonder if it’s from the exertion of the walk to the car or if whatever is wrong is accelerating.

Pulling up under the ER portico in front of two sliding double doors, I throw the car into park and run inside. When the doors slide closed behind me, my eyes dart from one side of the lobby to the other, frantically searching for someone who looks like they can help. There’s a check-in desk twenty feet from me and I bolt toward it. “I have someone in the car who needs to be seen right away. Do you have a wheelchair? He shouldn’t be walking.”

She’s efficient and flags down a man in scrubs who follows me outside with a wheelchair. As we’re helping him out, Mr. Street grips my arm and the desperation, fear, and pain have crept back into his eyes and voice. “Will you stay with me, please? I’m afraid this is it and I don’t want to die alone.” His bottom lip is trembling and he’s trying not to cry.

Naked vulnerability is all I see and I can’t say no, so I nod and try not to cry myself. “I’ll go park your car and I’ll be right back.”