Arkasha lives in Antwerp. He writes to Anaïs, who lives in New York, about all that is right in her life, and certainly all that is wrong. This week: an elderly man in trouble.
Hello Anaïs,
My brother’s crown is decorated with scars, because as a child he disappointed everywhere. As an older sister, I was usually around. Where others panicked, I became reason itself. An emotionless calm descended upon me, making me act quickly and correctly: measure the damage, plug the wound, call an ambulance, reassure my brother, notify the parents. Last week it happened again. In the office, a colleague rushes in panic: ‘IS SOMEONE THERE?! SOMEONE LYING HERE!’ And effective. In a corridor at the back of the campus, where hardly anyone comes, an elderly man lies on the floor.
We don’t know how long it’s been there. Her coat is red, her face gray. Stammering, he indicates that his heart hurts. The report comes into action: he calls 112, passes information, asks for help, keeps talking. Five minutes later I accompany the paramedics to the unfortunate. They ask him how he feels. “Like a truck going over my chest,” she says. He says he has heart problems. “I have pills for this,” she says, “but I don’t take them.” She has tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to make a game out of it.”
Paramedics attach numerous wires to his body, and the man has a large scar on his stomach from his gastric bypass, he says. My colleague brings him a glass of water, in a wine glass. “Mmm, rosé,” the man says. He tells us that he “likes a drink sometimes” and seems hooked. ‘Damn, a lot actually.’ He has to go to the hospital, we take him to the ambulance. My colleagues and I take a break, sit down at our desks and continue our work. “Strange that you don’t know what’s happening to that man now, isn’t it? I say after an hour. “I hope he has someone to take care of him,” my colleague says.
Yesterday after work I went to the gym, which is next to a supermarket with big windows. It’s already dark outside, but it’s light in the supermarket. As I lock up the bike, I recognize the red coat. The man queues at the checkout, behind him is the queue. Surprised that I keep staring inward, he can’t see me anyway. Do I have to wait here for a while until it comes out? And ask him how are you? I hesitate, frightened by his honest answer.
Then I see that there are only four things on the tape: two bags of crisps and two bottles of rosé. The people in line look embarrassed at the ground. Suddenly the cashier takes away the bags and bottles. The man swipes his credit card across the tray again. A large red cross appears on the screen. He leaves disappointed and so do I. Very little remains of that relationship.
Arkasha
Read also:
