The stretch of Market Street in the Mission is as open and raw as a city gets. The layers and strata of history, culture, emotion, loss and change is so thick, you can feel it like a fog. It is the one part of this City that really reminds me of the other City--New York. I like to walk it on occasion and swim in its energies. My most recent 'swim' sucked me into a riptide.

I was on Mission near 17th when a man ahead of me went down on the sidewalk like dead weight. He clumped down while on his feet. First he went to his knees and then he fell straight forward hitting the sidewalk with his face. He was wearing rags and was unshaven. He had a friend right next to him who was a surprised as I was. There was no jerk or shock so I knew he wasn't shot. There were dozens of people who saw this but everyone kept walking. His friend turned him over and tried to revive him.

My initial reaction was to run up and help the guy. I have training and certifications to help people in such situations and have done so many times before though it has always been in parks and in the back country. I did not run to him, though. I was a couple of hundred feet away when it first happened and was struck by how no one closer to him reacted. The lack of response and apathy spread down the sidewalk like a flood. I too was moved to not move.

As I walked closer the friend had somewhat revived the guy. He was bleeding from his forehead so there was blood all down his face and shirt. Surprisingly it looked like he did not break his nose. In my head I went through all the potential scenarios; concussion and shock from the fall and then there was the mystery of what caused the fall. A quick loss of consciousness is usually not good. It is the sign of a failure of some key body function. So I had my plan as I got to within 20 feet.

But then I was struck again by how no one else was dealing with the incident. At this point people were not even looking at the guy except to glance at the blood on his face. What was it they knew that I didn't? What was it that I was missing? Why was no one helping? Doubt and fear overcame me. I slowed my step as I neared but a strange inertia kept me walking. I was pushed on by a tail wind of emotional divorce. That for some godawful reason, marching to the beat of the City and keeping its show going was more important then helping someone in need.

I kept walking, enveloped in a torrent of internal conflict. After a few minutes of self debate and some stunted attempts to go back I called 911. This was perhaps the most banal and ridiculous thing I could have done. Because I called from a cell phone I was connected to the California Highway Patrol. After being on hold I explained the situation where I was then transfered to SFPD. After being on hold again I explained the situation. The moment--the instant--I told the dispatcher that it was likely a homeless person, everything changed. She went from being business-like to disinterested, even annoyed. She said that the City does not respond to such cases and instead some non-profit or church would send someone out. This just added a whole other layer of sadness to the situation.

After this terrible interaction, I said 'fuck it' and went back determined to help. I returned to a small puddle of almost black blood, but the two had disappeared. They were nowhere in sight. If it were not for the blood I might have doubted myself for having some type of 'daymare'. I have not been back to Mission Street since.