My name is Ricky Fix. I found myself on a stone paved sidewalk outside an apartment complex called Grosvener Arms in Downtown Denver. Blood was dripping from my eyebrow. I didn’t know that until two concerned pedestrians saw me on the ground with my pants half way down next to a dying tree outside the complex. They tried to help while I bled all over their clothes. Requesting more and more muscle so I could stand up straight to button my pants that for some reason have become undone. “Don’t ask me, who put this sidewalk here to begin with?” I say.
For some reason I kept on blaming the sidewalk for my problem. It wasn’t the profuse smell of cheap rum and whisky that protuded from my vocal cords and soon to be pores. It wasn’t my lack of care or character that I chose to instill in this body this world has kindly granted me with.
“Damn sidewalk. Why did anyone think to cement pond stones in to a sidewalk off of 16th & Logan?”
This is what I preach to the two individuals that are obviously concerned. I’m to intoxicated to care. All I know is that I’m now bleeding and I don’t want the cops to find me. The fellow that now has my blood all over his hands and white shirt has asked me my name. I tell him, “No. I give you my name, you’re going to call the cops.” He says “I wish to know your name because I wish to help the person I see here in front me. You and I both have names that help us connect beyond the simple hello. What is your name?” I repeat myself in my drunken debacle, “I don’t want the cops called.”
It is in that moment that I know that I have officially shot myself in the foot. That’s when I realize the two individuals that have shown me their kindness, concern and authentic humanity, no longer have patience for my negligence of self care. They now know after (15 minutes) sitting with me, attempting to understand, helping put my mysterious fallen pants on, providing fast food napkins to apply pressure to my busted, bloody and bruised eyebrow, there is nothing else they can do.
They leave with sour inflections in their voices. As if they have failed to help something they wish to see find its path. Let us be clear about something. That is not my concern.
“Who put pond stone in this sidewalk to begin with!?” I preach to the rest of the world as it passes me by with no second thought. With no acknowledgment.
I say to myself inside, “I wish someone would help.” When I know deep down inside, I need to help myself. Maybe, I’ll start by laying off the bottle. Tomorrow.