In 1986 and 1987 I was Head of the Social Sciences department of the Dayton public library. This meant that every fourth Saturday I was in charge of the Main Library and all 18 branches. Typically, this was not a problem. But the threat of a serious event always kind of hung over my head like a cloud.
Early one Saturday morning, Mike, the Pinkerton guard, walked into my office and said "We got a problem." I couldn't imagine what, since we had just opened, but Mike indicated that I should follow him.
As we headed toward the front staircase I noticed one of our regular homeless guys (I'm pretty sure his name was Tommy) sitting at a table. He looked up at me rather sheepishly and then quickly turned away. Tommy was a frail older guy, maybe in his mid-to-late 60s. Tommy was also an epileptic. When I saw that he wasn't seizing up I immediately thought that this "problem" couldn't be that bad.
Mike walked straight up to a narrow planter that ran parallel to the front staircase. Standing directly over the planter, he pointed. I looked and immediately saw (and smelled) a large splatter of vomit. When I glanced back at Mike he nodded towards Tommy. By this time Tommy had taken on the appearance of a whipped pup. After a few seconds of us looking at him, he blurted out in a feeble attempt at self-defense: "At least most of it's in the planter."
Normally, my next move would have been a no-brainer. Call the maintenance department. Unfortunately, it was a Saturday morning, just after 9:00, and the maintenance guy didn't come in until 11:00. I weighed my options and decided that rather than taking advantage of the always helpful "other duties as assigned" section that appeared at the bottom of everyone's job description, it would be simpler just to clean the mess up myself.
By the time I returned from the maintenance closet with the mop bucket and cleaning supplies, Mike and Tommy were both standing at the planter, gazing intently. I started working on my very unexpected Saturday chore when Mike announced: "Damn, Tommy - you gotta chew your food better! I can see everything that you ate." Tommy explained that he was always hungry and so he usually ate pretty quickly.
I stopped mucking homeless hurl for a couple of seconds and stared at the wall - replaying the conversation that I had just heard.
As soon as I got back to cleaning up, Tommy suddenly became quite animated and indignantly asked: "Where are my green beans?!" He then explained to Mike that he had eaten green beans at the shelter the night before and that they should be represented in his vomit.
That's right. Tommy felt gastrointestinally short-changed.
I guess when a person is destitute and living day-to-day the parameters of ownership are completely redefined.
After I finished cleaning up, Mike asked me if he should kick Tommy out of the library. I said "For vomiting?" He just kind of shrugged. I told him "No" that he should not kick Tommy out of the library. But I did ask him to make sure that Tommy remained seated very close to an exit door and that he should hustle Tommy outside if he senses any sort of heaving that is not epilepsy-related.
I am happy to report that Tommy made it through the remainder of that Saturday without any type of incident.
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