Where Angels Dare to Tread

Henderson, 2007

Five years ago, I was a private individual, a father of two kids, a husband to a wonderful woman married for fifteen years. I was and am a salesman and about as ordinary as they get. I drive a twelve-year-old Chrysler and I pay my taxes regularly and otherwise lived an ordinary life.

My life changed permanently one day, and it can never be the same again. You see, I discovered in a moment, like a bolt-out-of-the-blue, that I am a Citizen and that I have responsibilities to help deliver the outcomes that I expect from the Society that I live in.

Five years ago, I was minding my own business in New Zealand, driving between Client sites and listening to the radio. The news was running, and top of the news was the discovery of a P-Methamphetamine lab — a huge one — right across the street from where my wife teaches music part-time. Luckily, the cops busted the lab before it could explode. Had it exploded, it would have taken out the school and possibly killed people in it. Including my wife and kids.

I was badly shaken.

A few days later, the cops busted a P-Methamphetamine lab just down the street from where I live. It, too, was huge. And a bit too close to home. And so I got angry. Really angry: pig-biting mad.

I picked up the phone and was about to call our Mayor, Bob Harvey. Because that is what Citizens tend to do when they get upset.

But I never made the call. Somehow, in midair, I came to a realization. It was an epiphany. The Mayor was doing his best to curb Crime in our community, and so were his Councilors. Our Police were doing their best: they had, after all, busted two labs within a few days. And even our Government was doing its best with my money, and if I wanted them to do better they would surely oblige, by raising my taxes.

The person who wasn’t doing their best was me: the average Joe Citizen.

I recalled an interview with Barbara Walters, back in 1983, with a guy named Curtis Sliwa of the Guardian Angels, and I remembered being impressed by the vision that he had: ordinary Citizens taking responsibility and cleaning up their neighborhoods. So I hopped onto the Web to see if the Guardian Angels organization was still around. And lo! It was!

I made my phone call, but this time to New York City. And thus began the most amazing journey of my life.

Folks, you do not need to tolerate crime in your community. Crime is entirely optional. The criminals took over bit by bit, piece by piece, because we let them. We listened to the siren’s call of “don’t get involved”. We listened to the advice of the experts to “call 911 and let the police handle things. Don’t get involved or you could get hurt.” And in this process our give-a-dam’n got busted.

Your neighborhoods can be taken back incrementally, too: bit by bit, piece by piece.

I am not Bruce Lee, and I am not Chuck Norris. I am an ordinary guy, fat and overweight. About as average a Citizen as we can get. But my journey with the Guardian Angels has been a life-transforming event.

The day came for me to launch my Chapter, having taken my training by e-mail and correspondence: it is a long swim from NYC to Auckland and so there was nobody who could easily train me — I had to do it on my own — and many a midnite hour was spent reading The Manual.

At last I was ready to go.

My press release was loaded into the fax machine, with all the media outlets programmed in. And my hand couldn’t quite press the green “GO” button: it was an irreversable step. From that day forward, my life would change permanently if I hit the “Go” button. I was about to become the New Zealand National Spokesman for an organization formed in the Bronx in 1979…

…and then I remembered what had happened that day. I had been in Taupo on business, about a hundred miles away from my family. My wife and two kids had been driving thru Henderson to do some shopping. And a nut, probably strung out on P-Methamphetamine, had gone into my friend’s sporting goods store, carved up my friend giving him serious injuries, and run outside and stabbed an old-age pensioner to death. Right in front of my wife and kids while she sat waiting for the traffic lites in her little van. The cops had attended, and one officer had shot this crook several times with a Glock. And he still kept coming. Finally, a heroic parking warden crash-tackled the guy to the ground…

…all of this in front of my wife, who was talking to me on the cellphone, terrified, giving me a blow-by-blow account of what was going on.

I had never felt so helpless in all my life!

And so, naturally, I closed my eyes and hit the “Go” button on the fax machine. Never again would I be powerless against criminals. Never again would I want to feel like I did that day, in Taupo, on the end of a phone desperately wanting to be able to do *something* and being physically unable to do anything.

Two years on from our launch, we opened our second Chapter. The Lads have stopped two knifings, two riots, one kidnapping, multiple domestic disputes, and multiple drug deals. We have resussitated multiple street people and prevented two beatings. We have cleaned up our neighborhood.

The first time you save someone’s life, it is addictive. Better than any drug, better than any opiate.

And we have only used force once.

Folks, you do not need to tolerate crime in your neighborhood. Get involved!

The Mickey Mouse Teacher

BatBob's self-defense class

March 26 2007 Waitakere SDA School, Henderson, Waitakere City

As you may know, the Guardian Angels in New Zealand teach a group of kids basic Self-Defense: just the basic stuff, like how to get away from Bad Guys, how to stop someone from bullying you — that sort of thing. No Bruce Lee stuff. It is a class that is normally led by BatBob, my 2IC: he is an expert, both at Martial Arts and teaching kids. It is a very popular program.

Today BatBob needed a substitute to teach our Youth Program: unfortunately his father is experiencing failing health — at 98 this is to be expected — and BatBob needed to be with him.

So no worries — BatBob can’t do today’s lesson, fair enough too. I originally dumped him into the commitment, and he’s delivered Value in double-handfuls since. This time he can’t go: he offered to fit it into today’s busy schedule, I told him not to be silly I’d take it for him no worries…

…while sitting around half-asleep on my day off, in my underpants, unshaved and with no clue how to teach a group of kids Self Defense! And only a few minutes to prepare today’s lesson. Well, the first couple of problems were easily resolved with a shower and shave and a quick session in front of a full-length mirror…

…OK I now look like The Chieftain: clean tee-shirt, crimson satin jacket, Khaki Parade shorts, red beret, dangerous scowl. Oh yeah — need some knee sox. And Parade Boots — give them a quick shine. That’s better!

So I proceeded down the hill at full speed, only a few minutes late for the lesson.

Ah, the LESSON PLAN! What am I going to teach these kids? I know!!! The one-finger-takedown! That’s it! My Dad (a judo brown-belt when he was in his prime) taught it to me when I was a kid. I know it bloody works: every time! Used it on a bully once when I was a kid. BatBob thinks it would be OK to do, so why not??

But first let’s do some review: that way I’ll know how much they’ve retained. Yeah, that’s the Ticket! Of Course — let’s find out what they know! Brilliant, Chieftain. Revision and Review. Step one for any good teacher.

I pull up 10 minutes late (I’d phoned ahead and set expectations) and we get the kids outside like BatBob always does…

…and I’m staring into 31 separate pairs of eyes: some blue, some brown, all of them half my size, all of them twice as smart as me, and all of them twice as fast and twice as athletic. I felt intimidated!

So I pulled on my Duty Belt (at least I got ONE pair of cuffs if things get out of control!) and tilted my beret at a truly dangerous Sgt-Major angle, and began the session admirably, with my best and loudest parade-ground voice:

Q: “RIIIIIGHTTT! All you lot fall IN, AT the DOUBLE! FORM one line, TALLEST TO SHORTEST. NOW, MOVE IT!!!”

Hey, I’m a Dad: bossing around kids comes naturally ay! And to my surprise, they all did exactly what I told them to do!

This Sgt-Major stuff is easy, ay! And they are now tallest-to-shortest, all staring at me with their beady eyes, paying VERY close attention. Crikey!

The ENERGY coming from that line of kids was amazing: it felt like I was standing at the business-end of a micro-wave oven, full-on defrost. I’m gonna cook slowly and evenly and right the way thru unless I can do something about that ENERGY. Energy… oh yeah. BatBob always makes them run at the beginning! Good idea! Get some of that ENERGY dissipated! That’s the ticket!

Me: “VERY GOOD YOU LOT! You know the DRILL! What do you do if some weird guy or a bully or child molesterer comes up to you and grabs you and says ‘c’mon Kid! Yer gonna go with me!’???

Them: “RUN!!!” thirty-one wee voices all scream.

Me: “WHAAAAAAT??? I can’t hear you lot!”

Them: “RUN! RUN AND SCREAM ‘STRANGER!!!’”

Brilliant. BatBob has taught them well.

Me: “THEN what do you do???”

Them: “Tell Miss! Tell Mum! Tell BatBob! Tell Nathan!”

I’m grinning to myself by now. Teaching kids? Piece of cake! My Dad made a good living as a Teacher for many years: he obviously had it EASY! Why didn’t *I* ever think about being a Teacher, instead of trying to EARN my living?? This is an easy-peasy scam — and all the while I thought my Dad was working hard! Not Funny! I’m gonna switch careers and be a Teacher!

Me: “Alright! GOOD ANSWER! NOW YOU LOT! NOW RUN AND LEMME HEAR YOU SCREAM “STRANGER!”

And so they did — at full speed, across the field and back again. Jeez, this teaching stuff is a piece of cake! Any fool can do it ay!

Me: “RIGHT YOU LOT. Now let’s see if you remember what BatBob taught you last week…”

(Review is good: Dad used to use Review to reinforce lessons taught earlier! See, this Teaching Stuff is blood-simple! Even *I* can figure it out! REVIEW AND REINFORCE. Brilliant!)

BatBob had told me what he’d taught last week: a simple break-away, with a twist-twist that should put the Bad Guy onto the ground. Then run! OK, easy enough…

Me: “I need a volunteer! Show me what BatBob taught you last week!”

A wee kid steps up: I know him, he’s the one that broke away from Mrs McCallum using our techniques the other week when he was at SDA Church. Tiny Samoan kid, but a good wee student. About three-foot-nothing in his bare feet, great big smile. PERFECT.

Me: “Right! Come HERE KID!! Yer gonna go with ME!” I say in my very best gruffest and nastiest imitation child molesterer voice.

Kid: “OH YEAH? Hiiiy-YAH!”

About that time my whole Universe exploded. A comet surely came streaking from the vastness of the Heavens on a collision course with Planet Earth and nailed me right in the Goolies. I’m now rolling around on the ground, clutching myself, cursing under my breath and singing sweet hymns…

This wicked wee kid — paying absolutely NO ATTENTION to what BatBob had ever taught him, had done a beautiful and unexpected snap-kick to my groin! WHACK! Decisive, simple, and effective. And it was good-nite nurse for me! One bollix went flying over my left shoulder and landed on the school roof, the other was punted somewhere toward the Tegel Chicken Factory behind the playground. NOT FUNNY.

And this wee brat runs away and screams “Help! Help!!! STRANGER!”

Perfect run-away escape, exactly like he was taught by BatBob. Dunno where he picked up that tidy snap-kick tho’ — he NEVER learned that from BatBob because we don’t teach kids to strike — and I never even saw it coming. Crikey!!!

What could I say to that??? Whatever works, I guess…

The rest of the lesson was taught Soprano, like Mickey Mouse, with tears streaming down my face. It took nearly two hours for my proper voice to get back to normal.

Ouch!!!

Yeah right — Teaching is an EASY way to make a Living ay! No wonder my Dad absolutely FORBADE me from entering that profession. I guess he knew what he was doing after all.

Oh well, I learned the hard way: a Mickey Mouse Teacher deserves a Mickey Mouse Voice! I guess it’s Poetic Justice at some level or another: some unresolved equation in the Universe was suddenly resolved today; some ancient Debt has been repaid; History has somehow been acquitted and vindicated and proven true…

It serves me right for doing a friend a favor, for “No Good Deed Shall Go Unpunished!” I think from now on I’ll leave Teaching to the true Professionals.

And I guess it’s like Dad once said: “There are Teachers, and then there are Educators.” Dad’s right as always — and that wee Samoan kid with the big smile was an Educator.

This is Angel Country

L-R "BatBob", "Chieftain", Councillor Corban, "Alex", "Ace"

(Language warning: As this event takes place in the street, some rough language is in use. Where this happens I have edited it. However, it might give offense to some.)

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September 8/9 2006: Henderson Patrol #37, Waitakere City

Four-thirty in the morning, nearly seven hours ex-post-facto, and the adrenaline is still keeping me awake.

A sequence of Unfortunate Events have decimated our wee Henderson Chapter. Poor excuses have reduced our membership down to its grass roots: Excuses and Bullsh-t left-and-right. And so it was that it was just BatBob, Alex and me tonite, on Patrol, in Henderson.

No matter. I was with my Originals: the Lads. Free from the taint of all that had gone before, and everything that came after that.

Two guys with Heart who were there from the start were going to Patrol with me tonite. These are guys who don’t run away from danger: instead they run toward it, as I had seen back in March during our first knife incident, a few brief months ago.

It was dark. I was to be Patrol Leader tonite, and as there were but three of us, I decided to do something a wee bit different: we’d do Diamond, but with me at Point, and with my Partner (BatBob) and my 2nd (Alex) taking up the rear. We decided not to do dark alleys tonite: not enough guys to send runners in and unless something of an emergency nature happened we would all stick together as a tight wedge, closer than normal, walking at Patrol Speed.

At the beginning of each Patrol it is our custom to frisk each other for weapons, thoroughly. This is a part of our Public accountability: we are an unarmed foot patrol. We will always be held accountable for being unarmed: if we encounter the Bad Guys, well, we begin our encounter unarmed and that is their problem not ours. The law is on our side, and our training will balance things out.

So, after pat-down we crossed the foot bridge into Trading Place: still a dark, grotty end of town, but it has been greatly improved by the building of the new library. So I posted the Lads up at the mouth of the alley and jogged within eyesight around the cul-de-sac, shining my torch into the dark bits but staying out. Nothing happening anyrate.

“Pair UP!”

We did a quick tour of the underground parking lot where the Maori Church meets. They were indeed meeting tonite: we checked around their cars for Bad Guys trying to break in (none) and along the river bank for Bad Guys hanging around up to no good (none). I poked my head into the church, gave a wave to the Pastor (he waved back) then we departed…

At the corner of Trading Place and Great North Road, there were about twenty kids gathered. “Who the F–K are THESE GUYS!” one of them exclaim.

“We’re going over there, Lads…” I said, stepping up the pace of our Patrol.

Moving quickly across the cross-walk: there are construction barriers thru the middle of Great North Road now, as the City Council is helpfully building huge islands to choke off traffic thru this arterial route thru town, to encourage us all to take bikes or walk all the way to Auckland to get to work. Sometimes I wonder if these pointy-headed Council folk actually live in the real world. Then I marvel that I was once one of them…

We jogged together across the street by the all-nite Fish & Chips Shop. A huge Samoan guy had peeled off his jacket and was in his tee-shirt. Huge bulging muscles. “C’mon MotherF—-r! One-on-one!” The scene is forever captured in my memory: the Turkish owner of the Fish & Chips shop looks horrified – the human manifestation of Munsch’s recently-recovered painting “The Scream”. The whole scene painted in orange arc-lite glow. A kid with really big hair – an Afro (haven’t seen one of those since the 70’s) with his mouth open, aghast.

A tall and thin Somali punk stood opposite the Samoan, with two Somali friends behind him. I did the maths in my head: these Somali punks will be massacred if push came to shove. Then we all saw the glint of the street light against the silver blade of the knife in the Somali’s hand.

“Knife!” I dunno which of the Lads saw it first – it wasn’t me. Large kitchen knife: nothing so sophisticated as a Stiletto. Just a large ugly and probably dull serrated knife.

“F–k this Sh-t!” exclaims someone in the crowd. “It’s the GUARDIAN ANGELS! Run!!!”

The Somalis run across the street, dodging cars. Horns honking: no matter — they get into their get-away car (predictably no plates, no registration, no business being on the road. But the cops won’t stop ‘em because there are two sets of laws: one for those who are law abiding, and another for those who are Bad Guys.)

The Lads and I spread out amongst the crowd: “Anybody get cut?” “What was this all about?”

BatBob is questioning the Samoan with the shirt off. Another likely looking lad is waggling his fingers downward, in “West Auckland” gang signals, shaking his head. Right – that’s my man to question: a dyed-in-the-wool Bad Guy — so I get into his smartass face. He isn’t expecting this: so he starts asking questions.

Q: “What’s wit da outfits? Who you Motherf—-r?”

A: “We’re the Guardian Angels, mate. Volunteer Community Safety Patrol. We train in the Martial Arts, First Aid and CPR and we keep the streets safe at night from violent crime.” (Level One, start with Respect, straight out of the Manual)

Q: “That right, Motherf—-r?”

A: “Hey Tough Guy. What happened here?”

Q: “Nuttin’ Bro’.” (Bad body language)

A: “So what does this mean, ay?” (showing him his gang sign, moving to Level Two)

Q: “Dunno what you talkin’ ‘bout Motherf—-r.”

A: “Bullsh-t, mate. And don’t ‘Motherf—-r’ me – I don’t like it. It’s rude to swear. You were telling that bloke not to tell us anything or else, right?” (Level Two)

The Bad Guy rolls his eyes, looks away.

A: “So what happened? Why you guys hanging around here anyrate? The Fish & Chips guy don’t want you hanging around here – you’re not buying anything, just making trouble, scaring off his customers. So what’s the deal? Why you here? Why don’t you beat it?”

No answer.

A: “POST UP.”

“Chieftain, I’m going to ask the shop owner”, says BatBob. I nod, and Alex and I post up. BatBob is like a Jack Russell Terrier: he’s a compact fighting machine and utterly fearless. He senses that the Turkish guy who runs the Fish & Chips shop wants to talk and he’s right onto it like the scent of prey. And the shop keeper does indeed want to talk – he has more than plenty to say! How happy he is to see us! We came in the nick of time! These kids have been ruining business! They hang around here and fight all the time, scare away the customers! Tonite, this is what happened…

Twenty or so kids disburse into the night: their fun-and-games ruined. My Bad Guy slopes off along with them. I’ve no legal reason to stop him leaving but I’m sure he knows more than I was able to gather from him.

Meanwhile, Alex is interacting with some of the Samoan kids that remain: he’s magic. Dunno how he does it, but he’s a treat to watch. An overgrown street kid, mid-twenties: somehow and somewhere he learned exquisite manners – he persists in calling BatBob and me “Sir” even tho’ we’ve pointed out a few times we’re not Commissioned Officers of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Very tall and lean, he moves like a cat: he’s studied at least six martial arts forms according to BatBob, but he won’t tell us anything much about his past. Which is fair enough, I guess. The street kids are attracted to him (as are all girls forty-and-under) and they will open up and talk to him whereas they will shut up and say nothing if I ask…

“Nothing more to be learned here, Sir.”

“PAIR UP!”

“Mistaken identity. The Somali punks had been roughed up by some Samoans earlier tonite. So they went home, got a knife, and went looking for the first Samoans they could find. Now, the Somalis are going home to find about twenty more Somalis, then they’ll find the next group of Samoans to fight. Doesn’t matter who, so long as they are Samoan.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “These punks are out of their minds. They better keep their ugly little tribal war out of Henderson, tonite – that’s all I can say. This is Angel Country.”

The rest of the Patrol was quite uneventful: two hours later we decided to call it quits.

It’s 11 AM Saturday: I haven’t slept yet – adrenaline. Playing the scene over and over again in my mind: no movie could ever be as good as Real Life. And we had some Real Life last nite.

The Last Train West

(Language warning: As this event takes place in the street, some rough language is in use. Where this happens I have edited it. However, it might give offense to some.)

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March 2/3 2007: CBD Patrol #10, Britomart Auckland CBD

On the way back from Patrol, The Lads from our Henderson Chapter and I needed to catch The Last Train out of Auckland, as usual.

The train was late. For a while, I thought that perhaps we had missed it. No matter: I’m bone-tired, my Antient Knee Injury is giving me Merrie Hell, my feet are killing me from a long Patrol, every muscle aches and I frankly don’t care if I have to wait until 7 AM: there’s a nice long bench over yonder, room enough for two of the three of us to stretch out and relax. We’ll take turns sentry duty, two of us will sleep, one will stand guard: two-hours-on-four-off, I’ll take first watch…

Leadership has its privileges, and one of those privileges is to let The Lads rest first: lead by example. Rule #1 is to never ask The Lads to do something that you won’t do. Rule #2: always do it no matter what, no excuses. That’s what being the Leader is all about. Rule #3: if you always observe Rules #1 and #2, chances are one of The Lads will one day Volunteer to go first. When that happens, that Lad has made the crucial step toward becoming a Leader and no longer a Follower…

…and developing aimless individuals into Followers, and then into Leaders is what Guardian Angels is all about.

Alas, ’twas a moot point, because The Last Train soon arrived in a hiss and a roar and a huge puff of diesel smoke. An antique engine, The Last Train to Henderson. The Last Train West.

We found our seats, in the last carriage, and waited and waited — no worries, the last train is usually a while in leaving, as there isn’t another one until 7 AM…

…eventually this officious train conductor comes thru the train and demands everybody move to the front compartment (I suppose for her convenience). So Taniwha and I get up to move thru, as requested (Alex was already there).

And sitting there, slumped over, is this guy, about 30 years old. He looks asleep.

“Mate, we gotta move to the front compartment”, I say, trying to shake him awake…

“Mate!” Shaking harder — no response.

“AY MATE! GOTTA MOVE SEATS!” a bit louder. I’m looking for vital signs now: no breathing that I can see. Strong odor of alcohol: bourbon (what a surprise!). Feeling for a pulse at his neck… none. At his jawbone… none. Not even a ghost of a pulse.

I’m beginning to freak. Now, some pats to his cheek. Now, a few rather harder ones — no response. Now an ungentle whack. Pinch the earlobe, hard. Rake the ribs with a sharp finger. Nothing. Not responding to discomfort or pain. Check his eyeball — it has disappeared into his eye socket…

“Hell!” I cuss to myself. He’s still warm but clammy, and I’m thinking I’ve got a real-live-dead-guy on my hands, if that makes any sense.

This guy is somehow dead or dying: he’s on “The Last Train West” alright…. I reach to my Duty Belt for the Aid Kit with a view to performing CPR and Taniwha grabs his cellphone and is about to call 111 (same as ”911″ if you live in America)…

Mind is racing — trying to remember the steps, looking for the mouth-to-mouth shield. Crikey! I’m just a Volunteer, I should be at home watching TV or something, not doing this stuff!

The guy stirs, opens his eye, grumbles and invites us to Eff Off. “Thanks for the gratitude, Pal!” I think to myself as I frog-march him unceremoniously by his funny bones and lead him to a seat in the front compartment, where he begins to snooze, snoring rather loudly. We’re all watching him: he is drunk as a skunk, and I toy with the idea of calling the ambulance anyway. Still, he is now semi-conscious, drunk but sorta in this world rather than in the next…

A few moments later, directly across from him, a couple teenagers sit down: one kid is very sober, the other is extremely drunk — also three sheets to the wind, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Me: “How much did he have?” I ask.

Kid: “Two.”

Me: “Two what?”

Kid: “Vodka.”

Me: “How much Vodka? Two glasses? How big were they?”

Kid: “Bottles. One-point-one Liter. Chugged ‘em, one after the other. What an idiot.”

Me: “No way!”

Kid: “No s–t, I watched him do it. What an idiot!”

I quickly do the maths: Crikey! That much vodka all at once would kill me, and I’m 265 lbs. He’s half my size. I’m about to call 111, badly worried.

The drunk kid starts to vomit, and the sober kid tells him not to, to hold it in and swallow it. The drunk kid is doing his best to hold it in, swallowing and nearly choking.

Me: “No! No dude! Don’t make him hold it in: he could choke! That would kill him. If it needs to come up, it’s better out of his stomach. He needs medical attention.”

The drunk kid then takes careful aim, and a massive chunder goes flying across the aisle, covering the other drunk guy with a huge all-encompassing spray of vodka-and-guts-juice-and-whatever-he’d-eaten-probably-Italian. He wakes from a troubled alcohol-induced stupor, wondering why he suddenly smells of someone else’s vodka-and-dinner.

Drunk 1: (with an astonished look on his face) “You two are both so… so VAPID!”

(an unexpected response: I nearly guffawed in surprise but decided to watch carefully instead — this had the makings of a Drunk Fight…)

Kid: “WTF does VAPID mean, dude? Never heard of that word.”

Drunk 2: “Uuuuuughhh!” (another volley, accurately aimed!)

Drunk 1: “You know… VAPID. Like *why* did your mate just chunder all over me? He’s VAPID, man. Didn’t you go to school, fag? You’re VAPID, too. Did you ever read ‘Catcher in the Rye’? ‘To Kill a Mockingbird?’ ‘The Grapes of Wrath???’”

(What does this have to do with the price of tea in China? I’m asking myself. Then I remember and kick myself: silly me!!! He’s a Drunken Scroat living in a different alternate reality. Anything coming out of his mouth right now is either Bullsh-t, abuse or vomit…)

Drunk 2: “Uuuuuuughhh!”

Drunk 1: “He’s so p-ssed he can hardly move!” The two drunks stare at each other as if they’d like to leap across the aisle and kill each other… except they can’t move. Paralysis-by-hard-liquor: in one case, cheap vodka, and in the other case, Jim Beam…

Me: “Mate, a few minutes ago you were so p-ssed I nearly called an Ambulance for you. Why don’t you keep just quiet and enjoy your ride?”

(O! how easy it would be if only one or both of them jumped out of their jolly seats and assault me — then it’s a simple block-lock-throw-yerunderarrest!-out-with-the-cuffs-clickclick and dial 111, the problem is taken out of my hands. Sections 39-48 of the New Zealand Crimes Act 1961 were made for situations like these…)

I’m debating all the while whether to dial 111 anyrate, call out some cops and a pair of ambulances. Desperately searching my First Aid knowledge — what I could remember of it, anyrate: what does it say about Alcohol Poisoning??? And for some reason I’m hesitating. Neither drunks are unconscious — at least not anymore. Neither appear to be in shock, tho’ they are both very much the worse for wear…

The train starts slowing down at the Mt Albert station, where by coincidence all three need to disembark.

I’m still trying to figure out what I should do, and where my duty lies. Mt Albert is miles from where I live, a good four-to-five hours walk home. 1:15 AM. No buses, no trains, lucky to find a cab. Can be dangerous to walk alone thru Avondale on Friday nite, and I’ve no right to order Taniwha and Alex to go with me…

Friday nite is busy for the emergency services, 111 will be flat-out dealing with real life-and-death emergencies rather than self-inflicted ones. Do I have a legitimate emergency here, I wonder, that would justify calling ‘em out? Should I follow the drunks home just to be sure?

I just didn’t know what to do. So I decide to give some quick guidance to the sober kid:

Me: “Mate, your friend is in a very serious way. Do not let him choke on his vomit, sleep or pass out: if he does either call 111. You got a cellphone? Good. If he gets any worse call 111. Keep him awake. Do not let him dry-heave: he could bleed to death if he breaks a blood vessel inside. Give him plenty of warm water to drink if that helps him get rid of the booze. Get his head into a toilet and make sure he can breathe. Stay with him until (quickly doing the maths — how fast does the liver process alcohol? Times that by two-liters-less-what-he-just-chundered??) tomorrow evening at very least.”

Drunk 1: “Why the f–k should he care? That motherf—-r deserves a hangover!”

Me: “Mate, stow it why not — like you, he could be suffering alcohol poisoning. You’re old enough to know better: he’s just a kid. You deserve a mighty hangover. And guess what? You’re going to have one, too: a colossal one, and it serves you right and I hope it bloody hurts. That advice I just gave him? Better pay attention: you should follow it, yourself.”

Nope. Nice try but no assault, so no chance of doing a Citizen’s Arrest and calling the cops and ambulance. Just damn. All three disembarked from The Last Train West, and we continued our journey home.

+++++

I’ve had a few hours to think it thru now, still haven’t slept. In retrospect, I should have done that one differently. In my view, I should have called 111 immediately. True, the ambulance/cops/fire trucks may not have come out: that should have been their call to make.

It tells me that the focus of our First Aid training should be less on broken bones and burns, and more on urban risks like drugs, alcohol poisoning, needle sticks, lacerations, contusions…

In all, last nite I made a wrong call. Should have called 111. Mea Culpa. Woulda-shoulda-coulda. Goodnite.

Halt! Who Goes There?

A number of years ago I sat down and wrote out all of the Passwords, PINs and Combinations that I needed to remember in my life. This was in the mid-1990′s: there were over four hundred.

Granted, I was working in the computer industry at the time, and also granted I had, by that time, been using the Internet for fifteen years, so I had quite a few more passwords than most people.

But even so…

I shudder to think what that list would look like now. I have many more Passwords, PINs and Combinations to remember.  I have just celebrated my 30th year on the Internet, where much of my time is now spent: nearly every site worth contributing to requires a unique account and password.  We’ve experienced an onslaught of consumer-level products, from cellphones to motorcars to personal computers, each challenging to “know” who we are.  From border crossings to banking machines to buying alcohol it is nearly impossible to exist today without several valid forms of identification: often protected by PIN or Password.  The toilet is the one of the only pieces of hardware that we don’t need a password to use, and that will change soon I bet.

And yet, for all this “security” and “positive identification” we still can’t prevent terrorist events like 9/11 and we still can’t ensure that only a Natural Born American Citizen sits in the Oval Office.

Progress?

The Kiss

It’s my birthday, June 20, and I’m snoozing in my bathrobe on the couch with my mouth wide open, snoring gently.  In deep slumber…

A tongue explores my lips, sensuously, gently.  Slowly.  I allow it: half-asleep, I muse to myself that I am a sexy beast and therefore quite entitled to being smooched whilst snoozing…

The tongue begins exploring my back teeth, and then my non-existent tonsils (for I was born without tonsils, a medical oddity…) I, naturally, begin to respond, and for a moment-or-two we tongue-wrestle.  As you do…

My mind is now semi-conscious, and I begin noticing things.  Like sharp, clean teeth.  And flavors.  Like a strong, minty-fresh, soapy flavor… almost like…

…Toilet Duck!

My eyes snap wide open, and instead of seeing the china-blue eyes of my wife Shan (which is what I hoped for) I am staring into the toffee-brown liquid eyes of the other woman in my life, my German Shepherd, Greta!!!!

I give her a quick pat on the head (“Good Geel!”) and then sprint to the bathroom and glug down a few ounces of bright blue-green minty-fresh Listerine.  Then I brush my teeth.  Then more Listerine.  Eeeeeeewwww!  Yuck!

I notice the toilet bowl: it is nearly empty, with about two cups of water in it.   Blue-green from the Toilet Duck in the reservoir.  Minty-fresh flavor.  And the toilet bowl is particularly clean-looking, like someone had scrubbed it clean with her tongue (as I’m sure she did!!!)

Eeeeeeewwwwww!  Yuck!

Big Gretz stumbles in behind me, with her ears back and her tail between her legs, as if she had done a bad thing.  I gave her a big cuddle instead: what can I say?  My Dog loves me, and she decided to rinse out her mouth with minty-fresh Toilet Duck and give me a smooch for my birthday.  Who am I to complain?

You can do many great things in life.  You’ve actually accomplished something when your Dog gives you a smooch.  Because Dogs are without guile and innocent, and if they say they love you, they actually mean it.