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The sun streamed through the window, its warmth symbolic of my longest Minnesota friendship, cherished for a few hours each year. We met in our mid-20s, two “out-of-staters” on our first day of graduate school. For this particular meetup, I chose a longstanding pizza joint with delicious pies, knowing it would be quiet at 4 p.m. — perhaps a preferred time now for eating early and getting home before dark.
We settled into a sun-drenched window table, ordered our pies at the counter, and, with no other customers around, began to talk. Family, health, volunteer work, travels — a conversation that flows seamlessly over the shared 45 years. Suddenly, I felt and heard a crash behind me. Turning, I saw a skinny, disheveled man about six feet away, falling into the interior window. He caught himself on a chair that was falling with him. He screamed words, jerking in chaotic motions, his upper body seemingly separate from his lower body. His vacant stare indicated brain damage, maybe drugs, maybe psychosis, maybe both.
I glanced at my friend, who gave me a look that said, “Wait.” I silently agreed: assess first. Though we never practiced nursing together, we knew the order: assess, wait, then act if needed.
The man had righted himself and was grabbing at something in his pocket. I couldn’t tell what it was — too small for a gun, perhaps a knife. He couldn’t seem to pull it out or organize his fingers around it. He was shouting random English words, sometimes coherent — “help.” He shook and jerked, inhaling loudly. Standing by the window, he was so thin his pants were held up by string. His eyes never looked in our direction. He was so close, I could feel his presence.
Then a young employee, the age of a grandchild, came forward. “Sir, can I help you?” Nothing. “Sir, can I get you a glass of water?” Nothing. “Sir, I’m going to get my fellow employee, and we’ll get you a slice of pizza.” Young Employee No. 2 emerged with a glass of water. They placed it 10 feet from him and stepped back, saying, “Here, Sir, we brought you water,” and “we are getting you a slice.” The man stared into the distance, fumbling with his pocket, shouting incomprehensible words. I worried this might end badly. I slowly moved my phone and opened it to the keypad, wondering if I could text 911.
“Sir, here’s your slice of pizza,” said No. 2. “Could we all take it outside?” asked No. 1. The man continued pulling at his pants, breathing loudly, screaming, and now had a lighter from his pocket. It wasn’t lit, which was positive. “Sir, can we go out with you and the pizza slice? Here it is.” I didn’t know how this would end. Nos. 1 and 2 were doing an excellent job, respectful and offering concrete actions with specific words. This wasn’t escalating, but it wasn’t changing either. I stayed still, no eye contact, silent, as Nos. 1 and 2 continued: “Here’s the water, here’s the pizza, can you take it? And we’ll go outside.” “Here, I’ll bring the pizza outside.” “How can we help you?”
