That Feel When You Gotta Call 911 on Yourself
I’m a big fan of 911. As a kid, I watched Rescue 911 religiously. When my little sister shoved a Lite-Brite peg into the depths of her nasal passage, my first responder six-year-old ass had the phone off the cradle and the 9–1 dialed before my mom could say “tweezers.” If I see a person laying face-down on the street — or anywhere people typically don’t choose to lay face-down — I’m calling 911. If you’re driving like you’re drunk, an asshole, or a drunk asshole, you better hope I’m not on the road that day. Because if I am? You know who I’m gonna call. (No, not Ghostbusters. 911.)
I don’t know CPR, self-defense, regular defense, or anything else that would render me useful in an emergency (I do, however, own an impressive assortment of Band-Aids). Thing is, I can’t just ignore an emergency, either. Having lived most of my life in big cities, I’ve learned there are times it’s best to mind your own business, and there are other, glaringly obvious times when you need to call in reinforcements. I’ve only called 911 five times, and I have a visceral memory of every situation that warranted it, as they were all fucking terrifying in their own special way. Like the time I watched an older, probably-drunk man take a few stumbling steps down the sidewalk before cracking his head open on a black iron gate (the kind with the pointy tips), followed by the reddest blood I’ve…
