She was obviously not used to speaking in front of people. It was a small nightclub in Santa Monica, filled with those who had come for the monthly story-telling night. Ten persons, whose names were pulled out of a hat, got a five-minute opportunity to tell their story. The hostess of the evening was sweet and funny and quick on her feet, but tough about the ground rules: no notes, stay on time, stay on topic, make us care. Each story would be rated by judges, and the winner would go to a regional competition. The audience was largely young and hip. Many of the stories were steeped in the youthful bravado of sex, intoxication, and outrageous (mis)behavior, and their tellers affected a breezy, cool nonchalance. This young woman was different. She had no particular style, no desire to put herself in the foreground. The story she had brought was burning inside her.
I should start by telling you that at the time when these things happened, I had spent most of my life in unhappy relationships, and I came to the point of asking myself the question, What is it that actually makes one person have some meaning or significance for another person?
So, this night, I was out with my girlfriends, and we were coming back from the restaurant pretty late, walking down an alley in a little park. Suddenly we saw this guy lying on the ground. We thought maybe he was asleep or drunk, but when we got down and looked at him we saw that his throat had been cut, just like that, almost from ear to ear. We almost didn’t see him in the dark, and we thought it was his dark clothing, but it turned out later that he was wearing a white shirt, it was just completely soaked in blood. I remember thinking to myself, is this really happening? Am I watching myself in some kind of movie? So, we did what anyone would have done. We totally freaked out. We called 911 and tried to find a pulse. We found a pulse. None of us knew much about first aid, but we tried to help him. In a while the police came, and they got him to the hospital. After that we felt we wanted to know how he was doing, so we called the hospital every couple of hours to check up.
Later we found out that he died (slight pause) three times on the operating table, but finally they were able to stabilize him. He regained consciousness two weeks later, and after that we visited him whenever we could. When he was ready to leave the hospital, he was very grateful and thanked us profusely, over and over, but then he went back to his life, whatever that was, he just sort of disappeared. But I can tell you, this was a few years ago already, and I think about him all the time.
So what I think now is, it’s not what someone does for you that makes them mean something for you. Actually, it’s what they allow you to do for them. That’s what I think, anyway.
After the applause, the hostess scarcely missed a beat. “I love this girl. ‘We did what anyone would have done,’ she says. Sure, anyone would have done that! Anyone would have taken care of a filthy homeless guy with a cut throat, found a pulse, given him CPR until the ambulance arrived, called every hour to check up, visited him in the hospital. Absolutely! The world is full of people like that! That’s why this world is such a wonderful place….”
