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-- F. Scott Fitzgerald  I was three steps from the entrance of
my building when I noticed him. He was ten paces beyond my door,
farther than my eyes usually roam. But one doesn't need to be
paying attention to notice certain things -- like a blaring
siren, the vision of a man lying face down on the sidewalk is
impossible to ignore. The top of the man's head lay against the
side of the building and his legs stretched across the walkway,
the tips of his dirty white tennis shoes almost reaching the bus
stop bench. A CD Walkman had half-fallen out of one of the
pockets of his khaki shorts. As I drew closer, I saw the perfect
circle of yellow vomit on the cement by the man's head. Three
people stood over him. Two used their feet to nudge and poke the
man in the legs and said things like, "Hey, man, are you okay?"
The man didn't move.  "Have you called 911?" I asked them. The
women and man stared back at me. "No? Do you know how long he's
been here?" A