Finding 'Joe' On The Sidewalk

I may have saved "Joe's" life. At least I hope I did. Joe isn't his real name, but it's as good as any other, and it would be wrong to put his real name in the paper.

I had arrived for shopping at Britton Plaza and Joe was lying on the sidewalk. He looked 30-something, wearing a clean black T-shirt, stone-washed jeans, nice running shoes, sunglasses on his face - and passed out.

Dozens of people walked by him. Nobody stopped to check on him. It was as if he was just garbage, something to be ignored.

I checked on him, pressed his shoulder, made sure he was breathing. I tried to talk to him, but he was unresponsive. He slumped on his side. I checked his airway, satisfied myself that he was alive and respirating.

I saw a guy walking by - nice suit, good haircut - and asked him to help me get Joe into a safer position. The guy seemed at first unwilling, but finally came to my aid and we got Joe into a position where he was sitting up, his back against a column, and his breathing was assured. The guy left immediately.

More people walked by, stared at Joe, stared at me trying to help Joe. Nobody stopped.

I saw a lady come by with a cell phone at her ear and called to her, "Can I use your phone to get help for this guy?" She looked at me warily, but she cut her conversation and let me use her phone to call 911. She walked away, on the phone again, without a backward glance.

Five minutes later, the paramedics of Tampa Fire Rescue arrived and took over. Those guys were terrific. They got Joe to a state of reasonable consciousness, although it was clear he was intoxicated - alcohol, drugs, something. He was shaky, could barely hold his head up and answer the paramedics' questions. They got his wallet and checked his ID. They put a blood-pressure cuff on him, a pulse monitor on his finger, did everything to ensure he was not going to die on them.

Under their questions, Joe admitted he needed rehab and detox, but the hospitals hadn't wanted to take him.

A Tampa Police Department car arrived moments later and a very smart and sensitive officer named Boots (that's his real name, and he deserves to have it in the paper) helped me get Joe up onto his feet and into the squad car for a trip to BayLife, where they would get him help. Joe reached for our hands and grasped them, saying "Thank you," over and over again.

I don't know what will happen with "Joe" and his ability to recover and get his life back on track. But I know what will happen with the people who walked by, ignoring him, leaving him on the sidewalk like a piece of garbage. They're going to read this column and feel guilty. And they should.