Bob, Al Green and The Witch of Salem

So last week I met Bob, who was thin and drunk and mustachioed and shivering on a bus bench, after catching the Rev. Al Green in concert at the House of Blues. [Al was great, inspiring and charming, incredible band, two WONDERFUL drummers, but the show was a tad brief...sorry Rev. Al!]

I thought maybe Bob wanted the bench space to himself, so when he turned to me, I said, "Sorry--just waiting for the One Bus to Cambridge". Bob replied, "Do you have a cell phone?" Warily, I said, "Yeah. Do you need to use it?", hoping he would not abscond with it, or maybe worse, vomit on my phone. Bob said, "Can you call 911 for me? I'm dying here."

Wow. Now I felt like a jerk, for thinking bad thoughts about Bob. I'm familiar with that "I'm dying here" feeling, so I asked, "What's going on?" Bob held out his gnarled shaking hands and said, "I can't stop shaking. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the cold, but I feel like I'm dying. I need to get to a hospital." It was really cold and damp. Bob's short green jacket was way too thin for the weather. I figured maybe Bob had hypothermia, and I told him so.

Bob told me he felt like laying down on the bench and going to sleep. He leaned over. I tugged on his jacket and said, "I don't think that's a good idea. You really need to stay awake." That's what I remembered from Red Cross training in high school. Drugs, head trauma, hypothermia. Keep the victim awake til they get to the hospital.

As I fished in my backpack for my phone, Bob explained to me he had already asked several passersby if they could help by calling 911, but everyone had ignored him. Oh yes, Boston, that warmest and kindest of all places!

I called 911. I explained that I thought Bob had hypothermia, and could they get there ASAP? The woman on the other end said, "five or ten minutes".

To take Bob's mind off his distress while we waited, I decided to make conversation. I asked his name-- "Bob", his age "45", and where he was from "Salem". "I wish I was there now, " said Bob.

"Oh, yeah, the Witch Capital of the Northeast," I commented. Bob eyed my long red hair and black and red clothing and asked, "Are you a witch?" I said "No", but Bob didn't believe me.

"It's OK with me, I don't mind witches," he said, to reassure me.

I told him, "It's not that I don't believe in that stuff, I just think you have to be very, very careful with it, or it can come back and bite you in the ass." Bob nodded in agreement.

I looked down Mass Ave toward the Hynes Center, hoping the ambulance would arrive quickly. I didn't want to miss my bus.

"I know Laurie Cabot, the Witch of Salem," Bob announced.

"You do?" I asked.

Bob said, "Yep. I went to high school with her daughter."

I nodded, curious about what was coming next.

"Her daughter and I got caught smoking weed together one day at school. Sent to the principal's office. They called our Moms. My Mom got there first. Then a big black limousine pulled up in front of the school. Laurie Cabot got out, 6 feet tall, hair to her waist, long black robes, carrying a skull and a witch's staff."

"A skull?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yep," said Bob. "A skull...so anyways, my Mom started to speak up, but my Mom looked kinda normal. I took one look at Laurie Cabot, and said to my Mom, 'I think we better let Laurie Cabot handle this.' "

"So did Laurie Cabot 'handle' it?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," said Bob. "You shoulda seen the look on the principal's face." Bob made his eyes huge and terrified. "He was scared to death. They let us go home with just a warning."

I laughed, loudly. Bob laughed too. Passersby with zealously guarded cell phones looked over to see what all the happy ruckus was about. Bob and I laughed some more, while Bob shivered and I listened for the ambulance.

A few minutes, both the ambulance and the bus pulled up. Bob told me to go ahead and grab my bus, but I figured I should wait to make sure he was properly cared for. He wobbled badly getting on the ambulance, but the emergency worker didn't think he had hypothermia. She put a latex-gloved hand inside the top of this shirt to touch his bare skin. No explanation to Bob about what she was doing. I thought this was disrespectful. Bob was drunk, not comatose. But she said since his skin was warm, if he had hypothermia, it was mild. Bob looked a little annoyed by her hand on his chest, but I think he was mostly worried about dyin' at that moment, so he didn't say anything.

They had a heater in the ambulance and blasted it directly at Bob. I waited until they left in the direction of the Boston Medical Center. I hope the doctors there took good care of Bob. I hope someone gives Bob a proper winter coat. I hope Bob gets into detox, soon. And that it sticks this time.

Bob has some great stories to tell. I'm pretty sure that with the life he has lived, he has a couple dozen books inside of him desperate to get out.

Thanks Bob, for letting me sit next to you, and sharing your amazing story. I feel really lucky. Sorry for worrying about my stupid phone. Hope you are OK.