Only in Wausau

Shortly after moving to Wausau more than a decade ago, I began to notice that there were plenty of strange people around. There were mumblers walking and talking downtown. The biking guy who I would see everywhere, never wearing a shirt and carrying a liter bottle of Sprite, when it was 30 degrees out. The shufflers trudging like zombies along Grand Avenue, moving with their heads down and ignoring all passersby and traffic.

One of the photographers at the paper called them "The Broken People," and I believe that the high number of these people is directly due to the fact that Wausau is the county seat. This is where physical and mental health care services, such as they are, are. There is a methadone clinic here, and low-income housing options for those who have trouble negotiating mainstream society.

It's sort of sad and cool, heartening and heart-wrenching all at the same time. But overall, I'm glad to live in a city that cares at least a little bit about the welfare of troubled human beings. And I think, for the most part, most people who are healthy, fit and able tend to look out for the unfortunate souls that live in our midst.

The thing about the Broken People is that they tend to disregard general safety, pedestrian and traffic laws. They cross busy highways without looking, ride bicycles the wrong way on a four lane thoroughfare and in general do whatever they can to disrupt the flow of everyday life. I kind of like that.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across something new. Actually, I almost ran over it. I was driving back to work from my lunch, running late as usual and thinking about a story or an interview. I took my general right turn off of Seventh Street onto Scott, and, holy cow, there was a  plump guy sitting in the middle of the street, with a woman standing over him. I first slammed on the brakes and then drove around them.

Did the woman hit the guy, I wondered. It didn't look like it. As I passed the two, I caught the woman's eyes, and there was a pleading look. I was tempted to keep going; I had deadlines to meet. But I couldn't.

I pulled over, grabbed my phone and walked back to the duo.

"He can't get up," the woman said. I looked over to the right and saw a minivan parked nearby, running. Clearly she was the first to stop, and she was looking distraught and desperate.

The guy was sitting in the street, slush and ice surrounding him, dabbing at some bleeding sores on his face with a tissue. "I'm OK," he said.

Clearly he wasn't. I don't think he was drunk, but perhaps he was a diabetic having a low-sugar episode, or he either took took too much or not enough of some sort of medication. His face looked a bit like raw hamburger, or as if had been pecked by crows. It was bleeding in several places. He had a fat face, a bit swollen. He wore shabby clothes, old-person's post-cataract surgery sunglasses and a baseball cap.

"I'm OK. This happens all the time," he said.

Really? You collapse in the middle of the street all the time?

"Look, you've got to move," I said. "You can't stay here. You'll get run over."

"I'll be OK in a minute."

"Maybe I should call someone."

"Oh, no, no," he said. "I'll be fine. You two just go. It'll be OK."

"Look," I said. "I'm not going to leave you here in the street. You've either got to get up, or I call 911."

"No! No, don't do that."

Meanwhile cars and trucks were coming around the corner, slamming on their brakes, and then veering around us. I envisioned all three of us getting clocked by a garbage truck. Maybe they would put us in the same hospital room, in beds next to each other.

"Here, help me up," he said.

The lady grabbed his right arm, I grabbed his left, we pulled and he was dead weight, like a bag of wet sand. "Push with your legs," I said. "We can't lift you if you don't help. And I'll have to call an ambulance."

He gave another effort, and he was standing. "Just lean me against that car," he said. We did.

"Oh thanks," he said. "I'm good now. It's just that I've been real depressed lately." As if that explained everything.

"I know," I said. "But you can't just collapse. Do you need some help?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm good. Thank you both. You've both been very kind. I'm all right now."

"Well, OK," I said. "I've got to get going."

"Yes, yes, so do I," said the woman, and she virtually sprinted to the minivan.

"If you're sure you're going to be OK?" I asked the man.

"Yes, yes. Thanks so much. You've been very kind."

I went back to the office. I thought about the guy, and was angry that he would put himself in jeopardy, and us too. I was angry that he wouldn't get proper help, but thought nothing of asking us for our unprofessional help. But mostly I was worried. I mean, I couldn't force him to go to the hospital, and I wasn't ready to give him a ride or adopt him or whatever.

So I called the line we use to get the duty lieutenant at the Wausau Police Department when we're making our daily calls at work. I told the officer on duty, who I knew, what happened. He said he would send a squad around to check on the guy.

I have no idea what happened. I still feel a little guilty, and a little angry.