The trip was specifically to see the current exhibition at the New Orleans Museum of Art, an amazing series of paintings in the photo-realism genre. I looked forward to having Bill see what Wendy and I had seen a few weeks earlier, to see it, enjoy it.

It is a great show, and we took our time to marvel at the detail, the phenomenal use of light, reflection, shadow.

After we left the museum, we were walking along the sidewalk which is bordered by a tall iron fence along one side of the park. As we moved along slowly, we saw what appeared to be the slumped over body, sleeping-probably, of what was likely a homeless man, dressed in long-unwashed clothes, a large satchel by his feet. It was not a warm day, and we were bundled, as much as one does in New Orleans, on a chilly day in January.

We stopped and looked. The body looked as if it might be lifeless, the way the legs were sprawled, slightly bent. Bill called 911, was transferred to an emergency medical unit. After the call, we slowly moved on as a woman walking with her dog approached. We had gone a little distance before I turned around and watched her make a wide circle out to the curb and beyond.

It was several minutes later, after we had reached the car and started to head for the park’s exit, that we heard the siren. Bill said something like, “Those are our guys.” I thought he meant that his work somehow had a connection to a fire and and ambulance crew. I had already, in the space of five minutes, forgotten about the slumped over body.

It was a few days later when I recalled the incident, and realized that had I been alone, I would most likely not have called 911. It would have been, for me, yet another instance when I did not want to see what I was seeing, did not want to commit to any action if I had the option not to act. If it was a crisis, I would do my best to imagine that it wasn’t one. Denial. Not wanting to be bothered, not wanting to be challenged. Just another homeless guy sleeping.  Wasn’t he?