I walked past a boy

I walked past a boy this morning who was in a very sad state. He was hunched up in the corner of a bus shelter outside a busy inner urban cafe. His hands were blue and his body was so limp he looked like a rag doll. He appeared to be unconscious, or at least seriously alcohol or drug affected. The stub of a cigarette was just coming away from the index and middle fingers of his left hand and on the left knee of his freyed black tracksuit pants lay a pathetic-looking piece of fried bacon. I could not see his chest moving so I went inside the cafe, from where this boy was in full view of several customers, and suggested that an ambulance be called. The cafe owner was dismissive: "he's just pissed, he's always there". It was only when I mentioned the colour of his hands that the owner went out and shook the boy -- whose body responded with a kind of floppy lifelessness.

Thankfully, an ambulance was called (if I'd had a mobile or if nothing was done by the cafe owner, I would have arranged for this myself). A MICA station wagon from the Royal Melbourne Hospital was flying up Swanston street within seconds. Relief.

This was a distressing experience for a whole heap of reasons, not least the fact that so many people seemed so content just to let this faceless black lump of humanity (can I say that?) occupy a highly-visible bus shelter corner without even raising the alarm. In fact, it seemed to me that two twenty-something men in the cafe who were sitting right in front of the boy were almost entertained by the spectacle! Certainly they didn't approve of my vocal and insistent calls for the cafe owner to deal with it.

Another day in the city, I suppose.