Busy businessman Andy dropped off his shirts at Jiffy Cleaners on Saturday mornings on his way to the golf course. He generally chatted with Mortimer, the frail, short manager, his thinning brown hair, flopped over his worried forehead. This Saturday Mort slumped in his chair behind the counter, hands on knees, staring at the floor, more worried than usual.
“Hey, Mort. What’s happenin’?”
Silence for too many seconds. Then--
“My arm hurts. Feels kinda tingly.”
Alarm bells went off in Andy’s head. He’d heard somewhere that tingling extremities often preceded stroke. It had happened to two guys he knew, couldn’t remember who. “Mort, you need to check that out. Might be serious.”
“I don’t have time. Have to run the shop. I’ll feel better.” Back and forth, they debated what or whether to do, if anything. Andy threatened to call 911. As he left, Mort’s parting words were: “Don’t call, Andy. I hate hospitals.”
Andy had time to kill before his tee time. He drove over to Bob’s house. Bob and he weren’t close but Andy knew Bob owned Jiffy Cleaners. It was only a few minutes away. He thought he would warn Bob about Mort’s symptoms. Sitting opposite Bob’s sprawling house, he saw no one, sensed no activity. Saturday morning, late sleepers. He didn’t want to impose.
Shapeless worries bouncing around his idle cranium, he couldn’t help but call 911. He gave the operator the particulars, then headed back toward the shop, parked half a block away, and listened for the sirens.
The EMS crew arrived. Andy dashed into the shop. The crew were busy clamping a blood pressure cuff on Mort. “Take that man to the hospital—” Andy blurted but got no further as the burly EMS captain backed him out the door.
“What’s with you, buddy? We’ve got this. Who are you?” Stopped cold, Andy lamely explained that he was a customer, liked Mort, and knew Mort would lie on the floor dead before leaving the shop if no one was there to replace him. The captain smiled, agreed that Mort looked like that kind of guy—but how was that Andy’s business?
Answerless, tail between his legs, Andy slunk to the course. Checking in at Jiffy that afternoon he learned that Mort had gone home—after his shift. Later Andy complained to wife Frances, concluding with a familiar song: “Mortimer might have died. What do you have to do to help a guy?”
Frances had heard this tune many times--“Not how I see it, my love. If you knew anything about Mortimer beside his laundering your shirts, maybe you could have averted this ‘crisis.’ Making up events doesn’t substitute for not making real friends, and making a real difference in their lives. By the way, your Uncle Ray and your partner Jim are the guys who suffered strokes after tingling in their arms and legs. If you really want to care, try to pay attention.
“Hey, Mort. What’s happenin’?”
Silence for too many seconds. Then--
“My arm hurts. Feels kinda tingly.”
Alarm bells went off in Andy’s head. He’d heard somewhere that tingling extremities often preceded stroke. It had happened to two guys he knew, couldn’t remember who. “Mort, you need to check that out. Might be serious.”
“I don’t have time. Have to run the shop. I’ll feel better.” Back and forth, they debated what or whether to do, if anything. Andy threatened to call 911. As he left, Mort’s parting words were: “Don’t call, Andy. I hate hospitals.”
Andy had time to kill before his tee time. He drove over to Bob’s house. Bob and he weren’t close but Andy knew Bob owned Jiffy Cleaners. It was only a few minutes away. He thought he would warn Bob about Mort’s symptoms. Sitting opposite Bob’s sprawling house, he saw no one, sensed no activity. Saturday morning, late sleepers. He didn’t want to impose.
Shapeless worries bouncing around his idle cranium, he couldn’t help but call 911. He gave the operator the particulars, then headed back toward the shop, parked half a block away, and listened for the sirens.
The EMS crew arrived. Andy dashed into the shop. The crew were busy clamping a blood pressure cuff on Mort. “Take that man to the hospital—” Andy blurted but got no further as the burly EMS captain backed him out the door.
“What’s with you, buddy? We’ve got this. Who are you?” Stopped cold, Andy lamely explained that he was a customer, liked Mort, and knew Mort would lie on the floor dead before leaving the shop if no one was there to replace him. The captain smiled, agreed that Mort looked like that kind of guy—but how was that Andy’s business?
Answerless, tail between his legs, Andy slunk to the course. Checking in at Jiffy that afternoon he learned that Mort had gone home—after his shift. Later Andy complained to wife Frances, concluding with a familiar song: “Mortimer might have died. What do you have to do to help a guy?”
Frances had heard this tune many times--“Not how I see it, my love. If you knew anything about Mortimer beside his laundering your shirts, maybe you could have averted this ‘crisis.’ Making up events doesn’t substitute for not making real friends, and making a real difference in their lives. By the way, your Uncle Ray and your partner Jim are the guys who suffered strokes after tingling in their arms and legs. If you really want to care, try to pay attention.
