By Eugenia Klopsis
The New York Sun
Copyright 2007 The New York Sun, One SL, LLC
All Rights Reserved
Editor’s note: Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.
We’re driving around Bay Ridge, looking at the houses, when we get a call for a “sick.”
“I want that one,” Bronson says, pointing to the Gingerbread House, a landmark art nouveau Hansel-and-Gretel structure surrounded by mature landscaping.
“Too dark,” I say, opting for one of the mansions that is tricked out with impressive Christmas lights every winter. I lean over to read the nature of the call on the computer screen: “Forty-year-old male, private house, nothing further.” I read out the address and Bronson heads in that direction.
“And now for some interior viewing,” he says. It’s always surprising to see the inside of a person’s home - rich or poor, it doesn’t matter, no one’s made the beds or done the dishes before we get there.
We turn the corner on a street with a canopy of trees just in bloom and pull up to the only unkempt mansion on the block. “Imagine that,” Bronson says. “In the midst of all this opulence, a hovel.”
It’s like “The Addams Family.” All it needs is a little black cloud hanging over it. The garbage cans lie strewn in the front yard, the gardeners haven’t done the spring cleanup, and the windows are streaked and cloudy. We ring the bell and are answered by a man who yells, “Come in!”
We push open the heavy oak front door. The marble center hall and grand staircase are entirely covered with stacks of paper, clothes, and bags of garbage. We tiptoe into the equally filthy living room, where a man is lying on a couch. There’s clutter everywhere: unopened mail, unpaid bills, a dirty cat litter box. Frozen food trays are stacked on the coffee table. The cat is licking one.
“Sir, what seems to be the problem?” Bronson asks.
The man clutches his gut. “I have severe stomach pain,” he says. “Soft stools, and I haven’t been eating.” He points to the food trays. “Those are old.”
“I can see that,” I say.
He’s polite, timid, and articulate, and tells us more than we want to know about his digestive tract. I whip out my paperwork and ask him about his medical history. He’s in pretty good health, but he says he has a psychiatric history. “Can you be more specific?” I ask.
“I used to do heroin,” he says. I look around the house, trying to reconcile mansion, filth, and heroin addict. He explains that his father died six months ago and that he’s inherited the house but has had a rough time.
“I used to work in a boutique in the Village,” he says in a quavery voice that reminds me of Blanche DuBois in “A Streetcar Named Desire” - a fading flower, Dixie after the war. “But I had to stop,” he says, fanning his neck. “It was too much for my nerves.”
He says he takes anxiety medications. “My life has gone to pieces,” he admits.
I take out my stethoscope and check his pressure and pulse. Both are fine.
He steels himself to tell us something. “Bay Ridge is very expensive, but it’s conservative,” he says. “Nothing like Manhattan. I mean, the clothes.” He makes a face. “Chanel is so passe. How many gold chain handbags can you own? I’ve started drinking,” he says.
“And yesterday,” he whispers, “I got some dope.”
Then he bursts into tears. “I’m sick, I’m scared, and I’m alone,” he says, weeping, then buries his face in a pillow.
“Look at this place,” he gestures without looking up, voice muffled by the cushion. The cat comes over and nuzzles his hand. “Oh, Catnip,” he says, lifting his head and gathering the animal in his arms.
“Sir,” I say. “Would you like to go to the hospital, to get checked out? Maybe they can give you something for your stomach.”
He blinks at me and sighs deeply. “Perhaps that is best.” He kisses the cat’s neck. “But what would become of Catnip?” Then he jumps to answer his own question. “I know. I shall have a neighbor come in.”
“Are you sure your neighbors like you?” I ask, then immediately soften the statement. “I mean, I noticed the yard hasn’t been kept up.”
He blinks at me. “Is it truly atrocious?”
I shrug. “Not truly. But it needs work. Have you let the gardeners go?” Now I’m sounding like a Southern belle, the plantation in ruins.
He sighs again. “I’ve had to …" he whispers, “conserve money.”
Not the most useful citizen, I think, but at least he’s not out on the street. At least he inherited this house. He and Catnip. Bay Ridge fashion mavens, look out.