If you were anywhere but New York and you saw a drunk stumble to the ground, you’d roll your eyes and say, “Oh, for chrissakes.”
That’s what I mumbled on St. Mark’s Place last year where some pathetic boozer hit the pavement so hard, he gave himself skinned knees and a bloody nose.
Like the kid who rolled over the car in Brooklyn, it was instantly clear he had the kind of accident that usually requires a Band-Aid and maybe a hug from mom.
But the NYU students who witnessed the fall immediately yelled at him to stay down as they yanked out their iPhones to call 911.
“He doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” I told them. “He’s just a drunk who fell down because he’s so drunk.”
As I was saying this, the bloodied but unbowed alcoholic stood up and mumbled, “He’s right” before adding, “I’m a piece of shit.”
Then he wobbled off to find more booze.
The kids with the phones no longer felt like heroes.
True hero that I am, I saved the taxpayers a big pile of money.
