by Amy Isaman
The building took up half the block, and I remembered hauling laundry there for two months one summer when our washing machine broke, and my parents hadn’t been able to afford the repairs. My mom refused to pay for the dryer when there was a perfectly hot and free sun hanging in the sky that could dry our clothes for us. We lugged super-heavy wet loads back home and hung them out on the lines to dry.
I passed the laundry’s entry and meandered slowly, my head cocked back, gazing at the sky and enjoying the quiet. A soft moan brought my attention back to the sidewalk. An old man sat leaning against the Laundromat. He grasped at his chest as if he were having a heart attack. My own heart leaped in panic. I knelt down, only to be immediately enveloped in a fog of alcohol fumes.
“Sir?” I yelled. He moaned softly and shook his head, his grizzled face scrunched up tight as if in pain. Was the old man just drunk? Or was he dying?
The old man was slumped over, just under the swirly red L painted on the side of the Laundromat. Why I noticed that I have no idea, but I did. He wore a rusty orange canvas Carhartt jacket, the kind every man in every small town seemed to own, jeans and ancient work boots. His face was lined and grizzled, with a gray scruffy beard. His legs jutted across the sidewalk, and his body slowly listed to the side.
I yelled again, hoping the sound of my voice would get him to open his eyes, and gently squeezed his shoulder.
Thank God it worked. His eyes fluttered open as he moaned. He looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn’t sure if that was because he sort of resembled Henry, a kindly homeless man that often camped out in my neighborhood in the city, or if I knew him from my childhood. I leaned in and squeezed his shoulder again, giving him a soft shake. “Sir? Do you need help?”
He held his left hand in a tight fist in front of his chest and with his right he grasped at my sweater, pulling me in closer. I tried to pull back, but he grabbed at my purse strap with a vise-like grip, surprisingly strong for someone who seemed injured.
“Get it out,” he mumbled and dropped his hand to his stomach and pulled open his coat. The handle of a Leatherman tool protruded from his stomach. A dark circle of blood stained his shirt.
“Oh, my God. Holy shit. Don’t move. I need to call 911.” I glanced up and down the street but didn’t see a soul to yell to for help.
His wiry arms pulled me in closer. “You need the key,” he said, his voice breathy and weak.
My eyes darted from his face to the blood that was spreading across his entire abdomen and dripping onto the sidewalk.
“The key? No, I need to call 911.” I tried to loosen his fingers but that wasn’t working. With my free hand, I reached into the outside pocket of my purse and pulled out my phone. His grasp weakened a bit and his hand fell onto my purse, which he seemed to clutch as a lifeline.
As I dialed, he loosened his grip on my purse and reached for the knife handle. A blast of wind hit us. He shut his eyes and moaned again, grimacing in pain as he wrapped his hand around the handle.
“Get it out,” he mumbled again.
“I’m calling for help. Just relax. Leave it there, I think.” I tried to reassure him. I only had to press three numbers, but the shaking of my hands made that task a challenge. I was not equipped to handle this. Should I pull the knife out? Leave it in?
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“An old man has been stabbed and is bleeding by the Laundromat in Elk Creek. Send an ambulance. NOW. Hurry.”
I tried to speak without screaming in a panic. He looked up at me and repeated, “You need the key.”
He closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Holy crap. He was dying. And he was worried about a key?
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