2003-04-05 - 3:10 a.m.

So I went on the T�s website to get the 86 bus (Sullivan to Union to Harvard to Cleveland Circle) schedule , and I heard sirens again. It was the other part of the Cosby Brownstone (separate front door, different street even) again. As I left, in the slippery cold, I passed the ambulance, I saw the ragged guy with the colorful sweater hobbling down the stairs, aided by dour EMTs who had undoubtedly been there before.

It made me sad, obviously.

On my way back, walking up that godforsaken hill, feeling down, really needing to go to the bathroom, I saw him again. No jacket, just that sweater, with tight tight jowls and a gummy maw and a scraggly beard, greasy longish slicked grey hair. I�ve been sick, and shouldn�t have been out in that thin snow. That dude shouldn�t have even been given the option.

He asked me to let him in. I did it for him--learned that my key does open that door, not useful, but a personal trivia fact at least.

I don�t know why he thought I could even let him into the building. I had never seen him before.

I did it for him �cause I saw him getting in the ambulance. In other words, I knew that if he didn�t actually live in the building, he knew someone who did, and couldn�t possibly pose a physical threat to that residence.

I don�t know what I would have done if I didn�t know that he had some reason to be in the building.

I don�t know who lives here. The guy with the dog moved out. There�s the ghost I saw. There�s the bitchy downstairs neighbor, her daughter sometimes, and sometimes a dude. Crazy Corey lives next door, my closest ally, I guess, in this realm. There�s the middle-aged dude with the cane. The big Portuguese family by the laundry room, and the other lady in the basement. That�s it. That�s all I know. I�ve been here for months.

There are a couple of shady apartments in the Cosby Brownstone. A month ago, I got off the bus around midnight, and crossed the street to the front door, eyes subtly fixated on the not a teen anymore lurking in the shadowed corner of the entrance. I gave him a nod as I turned the key, nothing I could to to not let him in. He quickly followed me up the stairs--I don�t exaggerate when it comes to conflict, but I made decisions like running red lights, and was ready for a fight I was hoping was not necessary. I got in allright, I have no idea whatever became of the kid with the I wanna do bad innocent look on his face.

So my key works, so I let this freezing old man wearing nothing more than a colorful sweater into the building, and I ask him if he�s OK.

From what he told me, he got into an ambulance, got released later on. Didn�t bring his keys with him. Stood outside for awhile. Is long in the years. Has almost no heat in his apartment (true for everyone in the building). Was thankful that I let him in.

Wow. What a depressing night.

I�ve never seen a racehorse piss, but I�m fairly confident that I emulated one when I got upstairs. And climbing those stairs, and now, debating with myself--maybe he�s some shithead that someone was trying to get rid of--their problem, maybe he�s some crazy murderer and I let him into the building--everyone�s problem. Versus oh my god, I might not have let him into the building, and I would have felt bad about it but also warm, and he would have frozen to death.

And it isn�t even usually this black and white. It isn�t usually oh, think twice, it�s just another day for you and me, you and me in paradise stupid.

It�s just so shitty that colorful sweater is the way he is right now. And maybe he was a monster in his youth. A tyrant as a dad. Maybe he beat his wife. I don�t know, but I do know that he, in some way, belonged in the building, and I hope I have the same luck or much, much, much better when I get a little long in years.

Liberal posturing solves nothing. Nothing solves anything--the more things you do, and the more times you do nothing, the more problems you will create. That�s why we don�t live forever--we�d all be dead. I should wear a veil and not be allowed to drive a car.

I can�t wait to get to bed.