The Jason Salas Experience

One of the people in my apartment building had a pretty dreadful accident yesterday. As I quietly tended to my laundry Christmas Night I heard a sickening thud followed by a slow, prolonged moan - loud enough to resonate above the churning of twin industrial-strength washing machines.

Now understand that I've heard a lot in the almost three years I've holed up in my current digs. I've had to audibly witness a lot from the various rotational neighbors with whom I've co-habitated - everything from the most descriptively detailed lovemaking sessions, to perpetually crying kids, to an AIDS activist belting out show tunes late at night, to low-grade spousal abuse, to strippers spraying Silly String while nakedly chasing each other around the complex, to overly-profane lesbians drunkenly pontificating about why Tupac Shakur died.

So I've gotten accustomed to tuning out stuff that's none of my business.

So when I walked with my empty basket back to my unit I saw out of the corner of my eye a person at the bottom of the stairwell, having taken what appeared to be a violent fall. This poor man clung to the railing with his lower extremities grossly bent in ways that would make even the most accomplished circus contortionist blush.

Being a mild acquaintance, I instantly dropped my stuff and rushed to help, asking this person if they knew where they were and if they recognized who I was (instinctively recalling the first-aid class I took in college to check for shock). Stumbling in and out of conversation the respondent said, "No, I'm fine...wait...yeah. I'm good. No...alright...yep...I'm pretty sure I broke my leg."

Grasping the individual I started to pick him up - at which point he freaked. "No, never mind! I don't want to be in the news! I don't wanna be on TV!" the person repeated. I said I wouldn't, and he insisted he was fine; he'd just need to make it up two more flights of stairs on his own and all would be kosher, he theorized. He became afraid and embarrassed at my attempt to help ease his suffering. I asked if I could at least hail an ambulance and sit with him, which got him more panicked.

It was at that moment I noticed the beer can he gripped even tighter than the rail. He wasn't just tipsy - he was crazy inebriated. Coherent enough to remember me and consciously resist assistance, but not enough so to know he was in pretty bad shape.

Not wanting to exacerbate his situation, I begrudgingly complied, and returned to my condo. I came back out five minutes later, returning to empty stairs. Thank God, he made it. (At least I hope he did.)

The bottom-line: he refused my help because I was me - a TV personality - and he didn't want his misfortune to be exhibited in mass media for public dissemination. He would rather suffer than risk humiliation. He feared being on the wrong end of schadenfreude.

That prospect honestly never entered my mind. I was admittedly out of my element, but wanted to help a fellow human being in a spot of trouble.

I'm not saying who the victim was; pointing him out has no merit. I write about it here only because I genuinely hope he's OK.

// posted by Jason Salas @ 2:23 PM