I was spit at yesterday.
Strolling home from my haircut I passed an older gent who was sitting on a bench talking a mile a minute. I was lost in thought so didn’t quite pick up what he was on about. However I got the sense that he was talking to no one and everyone and much of his language was, shall we say, salty. This is not unusual in Berkeley, nor for that matter in most cities of any size in this country.
I arrived at a large intersection (University and Shattuck for those of you who know the city) just as the light turned red. I’d have over twenty seconds before I could continue on my way home. I don’t know what possessed me to, but I looked back which happened to be in the direction for the rambling old man. At that he sprang to his feet cussing a blue streak at me. He was probably in his sixties, African-American, dressed rather nicely for someone who suredly was suffering mental/emotional distress. He was bearded and missing a few teeth and medium height and average weight. I thought it risky to turn my back to him but also reasoned that I shouldn’t make direct eye contact.
The old gent called me every name in the book and I — wisely, I believed — said nothing. Finally he spit at me. Somehow I can still see that spittle flying in my direction, missing me by centimeters. I’m used to street people cussing at me but I draw the line at being spit at. It’s a health risk. The proper thing to do, I decided was to inform the police.
As I got out my phone the spitter returned to his bench but continued to direct his ire at me telling me to go ahead and call the police, “I don’t care,” he insisted.
While I waited for an officer, a young man came up to me and in Northern European accent told me he’d seen the incident and was sorry about what happened. This seemed to enrage the spitter who again rose and approached my new friend directing invectives at him and again at me. We backed up making sure to be safely out of spitting range.
An officer soon arrived and I described what had taken place. The gendarme asked what I’d like done. “Isn’t that your call?” I asked, confused by his question. The copper told me that I could prefer charges and the spitter would then be placed under arrest. I said that I didn’t think that being arrest was going to benefit anyone, least of all the deranged old man. The lawman said he could evaluate him to see if he needed “services.” This sounded infinitely more reasonable.The man clearly needed help. Spitting at strangers — especially those who are innocent of any wrongdoing — is a sure sign that someone has serious mental issues that need addressing by a trained professional.
The policeman took down my information (name, ID, phone number) then approached the spitter. By this time a young woman was talking to my assailant and he seemed — from a distance — calm.
I went on my way satisfied that I’d done the right thing. I was not shaken by the incident, I never felt physically threatened over frightened. As a life long city dweller I’ve seen all manner of individual and heard probably anything awful thing that one person can say to another. I’d never been spit at before but as I remained dry it wasn’t ultimately upsetting. I’m one hundred per cent sure I did the right thing in not asking for his arrest and I’m glad that the local constabulary are willing and able to perform mental health checks and pass those who need it on to those who can help them.
The rest of my walk home was incident free, which is generally how one prefers their walks.
No comments:
Post a Comment