When hubby made it out to the door, he opened it and the guy practically rushed us - he literally stuck his leg in our door and tried his best to squeeze past my husband and push his way into the house. He said he had just been jumped by “five guys down the street” and was worried they were still after him. He also said his legs and hands were going numb from running. I was officially freaked out by this freaked-out stranger. We didn’t see anyone else, so hubby sort of shoved the guy outside and we said he could sit down on our porch furniture and we’d call 911. He wasn’t bleeding or bruised - he sure didn’t look like he’d been jumped by some marauding Wash Park gang - so we went back inside, got him a glass of water, and called the police.
Apparently this guy had no interest in being helped by the cops. As soon as I called the 911 operator, I tried to hand the phone off to him outside to explain his situation. But he hung the phone up, and he split when he heard that I had given them our address already and a car was on the way. When the 911 dispatch called me back, I told the operator the guy had run off and gave them a description. Turns out, they had received several calls from neighbors on our street - this guy had been going door-to-door trying to claw his way into other houses.
I’m just sure this man was strung out on speed, or having a bad acid trip, or something. I think he was honestly scared about something and needed help. And I’m also sure that I did the right thing by not letting him into my home. But I can’t help the nagging feeling that I screwed something up, and wasn’t able to get this guy the help he obviously needed. Like, maybe detox or the ER?
City life can be a little different.