Could he possibly be interested in me, you know, that way – this much younger, stylish stranger gazing at me, standing there rooted, not saying much? Got a bit awkward, him not making to take his leave as I tried to think of something to say to figure out what was going on. Not that I wouldn’t be flattered, of course. But it had been quite a while since a guy had shown interest in straight, old-mope me.

Flummoxed, I tried to keep it light with dumb questions that elicited only brief replies that ground matters to a halt, him standing there kinda canine – stolid, a dog used to the drill while you’re working the can opener on his food.

But every stilted exchange further prompted the thought that this guy was unraveling somehow. Hard to tell, really, a mask covering most of his face. But not that hard. Meeting his gaze, a quiet pleading said things weren’t right.

A bike rider, I’d crossed the Willamette River to tool around Northwest Portland, Oregon’s Alphabet District early on the Sunday evening before Election Day. Escaping my family for a bit, having spent the day – no, the last eight months – in their company, twin teenage boys sometimes scorpions in a bottle. I’d paused at some little shut-down joint’s sidewalk picnic table to sit and stew, listening to a football game I didn’t remotely care about.

And soon enough ‘Raymond’ – let’s call him Raymond, as good a name as any to bestow – came around the corner and stopped till I looked up so he could ask for a cigarette. Slick clothes, well put together, early 30s maybe (alos tough to tell, his mask capacious), he could afford smokes if he wanted. So maybe just an impulse on his part.

Apologizing, I said I had no smokes.

And there he stood. So, sure, a bit of conversation, why not, everybody, myself included, a little lonely and squirrelly. But the conversation didn’t flow. Able to resist the cliché no longer, I finally asked if he was also freaked about the coming election. (Might as well ask if he’d read any good books lately.)

And Raymond told me he hadn’t been paying much attention to politics – lucky soul, he.

So I told him he was lucky. That politics were stressing a lot of folks out, me damn well included.

And he said, That was too bad, but things hadn’t really been going too well for him either.
Sorry to hear that, I offered. It’s been difficult for everyone, I know.

At that inanity, he just stood there, looking at me. Stood with that dog’s plaintive expression when the phone rings and you put the can down. Not sure where this was going – I had no cigarettes; he didn’t look like he needed the dollar I’d offer the indigent – I woke up to the fact that maybe this was something beyond a momentary encounter on the street.

I pondered it, debated breaching this boundary between strangers who’d been talking all of three minutes. We dribbled out a few more words to no great effect till I asked him what he meant: not going too well.

You got a place to live, right?
He said that he did, then added something about having bad thoughts.

We went back and forth, sneaking up on it, avoiding it, until – a place to live and his general appearance indicating that a job, or money anyway, wasn’t the immediate crisis – I decided to leap in with both feet:

You mean you might be thinking about harming yourself?

He raised his pleading eyes and nodded and said yes, he was worried about that.

You mean like tonight? Like you might be thinking about killing yourself?

He said yes.

No ifs, ands or buts.

Well, then you need to get help.

We’ll get you help, tonight.

There’s a good hospital right near here. Come on, we can walk.

Repeating all that, I stood up, put my mask on and wheeled my bike over to him and got his agreement to head to the hospital. I tried to make sure he was serious about seeking help there and then.
Cause I didn’t want to get halfway there only to have him turn on his heel and off, saying, Oh, it’s not really all that bad. Not that I was worried about wasting my precious time, me just wandering around on my bike in the dark on a Sunday night. But worried what would I do if he called a halt after matters had become even more fraught for him. More fraught since he’d giving voice to the awful possibility.

For his overarching seriousness proclaimed this shit be real.

Wanting to be locomoting the same as him, I bent to lock my bike and helmet to a stop sign, wondering oddly if he might stab me in the back. Crazy to think that, sure. But a man talking about violently ending his life that very night (even pills are violent, ultimately), however dumb and unfair, that might run through your brain. I even wondered about asking if he had any weapons on him. But acting like a cop risked spooking him before I could deliver him to the hospital.

Heading off, I did manage to look at the street sign so I’d find my bike again. Cause back before someone came round that corner in trouble, just copping a squat to take the edge off, I hadn’t bothered about anything but there’s a place to sit out of the way.
OK, NW 18th and Quimby. We had a hike. The hospital ER, whichever hospital it was, (some kind of Legacy something, right?) was over on 23rd if I remembered correctly from previous bike rides, plus a good five or more blocks south.
Half-a-mile, give or take, for Raymond to decide, Nope, he’s not going to actually go sit in some crowded, Covid ER.

Right, things weren’t so bad; he’d made it so far, thirty-plus years, he could make it another night. Wasn’t denial the way these things often went – till tragedy struck at 3:00 a.m.?
As to me and a maybe Covid-drenched ER, well, I had a job to do.

Both of us aware of the Virus, he walked a good ten feet behind, me glancing back way too often to make sure he hadn’t just drifted off. What we’d embarked on left no room for small talk. (Hey, how ‘bout them Mets!) But our connection so tenuous, afraid he’d change his mind, I asked if there was anything he wanted to talk about. But no.

It sure wasn’t my place to ape some sort of lay psychological intervention. Beyond his stated fear that he was at risk, nothing else was any of my business. My sole role was getting him to the hospital.

Bolting was probably beyond someone so slack-jawed. But what if he just stopped, leaned against a tree and said he’d go no further? Beyond a few exhortations – Come on! This is a good hospital, and it seems like you need some help – what could I do beyond shrug and retreat to my bicycle? Had to keep the momentum going, one step after another. Never mind that I eschew mobile phones. Call 911, and he’s long gone before help arrives.
But he basically just placed himself in my hands, shuffling along and falling further behind. At one point I stopped and asked, We’re doing this, right?

He said yes, but he was having trouble keeping up. I looked and saw he had some sort of glorified slippers or house-shoes or something on. But I didn’t look too closely – didn’t want to annoy by intruding on his privacy. Having pried his stark admission from him – a shameful one by some standards – I was going to allow him every shred of privacy we together could muster. I cut my stride and then cut it again as he shuffled along.

We had to veer into the street to avoid breathing the same air as a couple walking a dog, and then a group of folks out for the evening. I worried that anything but marching in a straight line might break the spell, but on he stoically trudged. I played tour guide: See that bright sign a block up? We turn left there and then the ER is just two blocks on from there. (I wasn’t exactly sure of that, but … one foot after another.)

Since it offered a clue as to who he might have in his life to lean on, I asked how long he’d lived in Portland.

Only a couple of months, he said.

I didn’t ask what had brought him. Then I realized it had gone in one ear and out the other back on that corner when I was still fumbling around trying to figure it out. Cause I hadn’t a clue to his real name. And, things so thin between us, when presenting at the hospital, I at least needed to know his name.

(Yeah, well you see, I’m a bike rider and I’d stopped for a rest. And then ‘Raymond’ here came around the corner, and we fell to talking, etc.)
I asked his OK to speak first, and he seemed glad to give it. We got to the Legacy Good Samaritan ER, finally, and turns out the hospital wasn’t interested in me at all. The ER was basically empty this Sunday evening, and I was talking to an intake clerk pretty much immediately.

I told her my name, the bit about riding my bike and him coming round the corner. Told her I’d had a little training (very little), and that ‘Raymond’ sitting in the chair there had stated his fear that he might harm himself tonight. She asked if I was family or friend, and my saying no proved the route to my dismissal. Raymond came up with his ID in hand.

Not wanting to lurk where Covid might, I went outside to look in a window at Raymond talking to the intake staffer. And I started to wonder should I give him my phone number as I had with the poor guy some dude and I pulled off the railing of Portland’s Burnside Bridge.

Before I could wonder too much about giving him my number, a nurse in blue scrubs appeared to usher him inside. I bolted back in, thanked her for her help and said it seemed like Raymond was in a real crisis. She acknowledged that and thanked me for bringing him in, which was nice.

I turned to Raymond and extended my arm for an elbow bump, but he was focused on the difficulties before him.

I said, OK, I’m gonna say goodnight now. Good luck, bro.

I’ve never called anyone bro in my life, but I was a little jiggy.

Raymond had had his ID out all ready for the clerk; he knew how to get the help he needed. As somehow, magically – those pleading eyes and all – he’d known with me. Glad of it, brother.

If you think someone’s in trouble, be it spouse or stranger on the street, and you think that awkward questions might be in order, then go ahead and ask it. Sincere concern rarely offends and, the research indicates, doesn’t tend to lead folks down paths they’d otherwise never consider. As one of the experts quoted in the HuffPost article linked above advised, “Trust your instinct, whatever it is.”