After our weekly band practice, the boys and I hit the Dunkin Donuts on 41st Street in what is technically I-don’t-know-what but what gets counted as Hampden usually. We enjoy our treats and coffee/hot chocolate standing at the bottom of the steps there at Tower Square. We even have our customary standing spots. I lean on the railing, and Paulie stands on my left against the wall, Dan against the wall on the right. It’s as much fun as band practice, and the ritual helps us unwind, I think. (Pictured here and here.)

Last night’s practice was a little frustrating since we intend to start recording and soon. We were doing some rough-draft recording already last week and this week. Put in some new monitor speakers last night and got a late start.

Anyway, there we were last night. I heard Dan yell, “Oh, shit!” and I heard the rustle of a plastic bag and steps on the stairs. A fractional second of silence and the unmistakable sound of a head hitting the sidewalk.

Thud.

I know this sound because, well, I’ve hit my head on the sidewalk enough to know and have the scars to prove it. (For the record, several of these happened after I decided to major in philosophy, thank you.) But last night, it was as loud to my ears as if it were my own head.

We rushed over, and there was a man with silver hair and blue eyes sprawled on his back, eyes rolled back and mouth wide open. I know what I thought. I thought he was dead. I had never seen anyone’s eyes roll back like that. I know from talking later than Dan and Paulie thought so, too. That we just saw someone die.

I have been told I am calm in emergencies, like changing a tire along an interstate at night, someone bleeding like a hog, etc. I take that as a compliment. So last night, I don’t think I panicked enough, in a bad way. I was a dud at first. I found myself standing over this guy looking at his eyes for signs of movement while dialing 9-1-1 on my cell phone and waiting to hit SEND. Dan did the right thing, though, and tried to get the guy to talk and come to, which he successfully did. He got him to say his name. Warren. After a few minutes, he regained some consciousness, and we got him propped up against a wall. He left blood on the sidewalk and a smear on the wall. Paulie got him some napkins, and he was wiping the blood from his own head and telling us he was “all right, believe me.” For a head wound, he was not bleeding very much at all.

He was clean-shaven but had snow in his jacket and blood near his ear, which must have been from a fall other than the tumble down the snowless stairs we were congregating at. He smelled like booze but was coherent enough to have gone to Supercrap to buy toothpaste.

With some struggling, we got him to his feet and tried to talk to him. To see if we could take him home, call someone for him, maybe the doctor. He got slightly more coherent and thanked us dozens of times, with at least seven rounds of handshakes. I noticed that we all silently avoided the blood on the back of his right hand, for which I felt badly later, even though there were probably good reason. He left up the stairs he fell down, and we saw him go around the whole mess and start down Hickory, hopefully toward home. Hopefully not toward bed, lest he would have gotten a blood clot and died in the night, alone, with a bag of toothpaste.

We were talking yesterday about living in the city when we heard two men arguing over the same steps. Sometimes other people’s drama can be entertaining, when they drunkenly argue over who is the best friend and then “go down Falls Road to prove it.” But when people crack their heads on the sidewalk, it’s just downright scary.