Civic Participation

Did you know that the average population density per square mile in the United States is 90 people?

I only learned that when I found out that the population density in Koreatown, where I live, is 46,208 people, making it the densest neighborhood in all of Los Angeles.

When you have that many peopled scrunched in around you, it makes it hard to get to know anyone, even in the eight-unit two story building I live in. It’s a transient community.

Which makes it surprising that I would ask my neighbor, “Have you seen the old man?”

She nodded her head ‘no’ and I thought nothing of it.

I noticed that his newspapers were piling up on a side walkway. There were five strewn about. He had an amazon package that had not been picked up. His car hadn’t been moved either.

It’s none of my business, but best to be safe than sorry. Who knows what happens in a city this big.

I decided to knock on his door on the second floor and see if he was okay. No answer. He could be away on a trip. I tried to investigate by looking through the window, but the shades were down.

I am usually not this nosy at all, but something kept gnawing at me.

Honestly, it was me.

I live alone, and I am of an age.

This is silly, but lodged into my head is an old episode of Sex and the City, from 1998, in which Miranda, living alone, starts choking on take-out Chinese food and gives herself the Heimlich.

She tries to call Carrie, but Carrie is too preoccupied with Big to answer the phone. I haven’t had a television for ten years, so I haven’t seen it in at least that long, but this scene manages to resurface for me.

I often think of what would happen if I was incapacitated in my apartment.

I go days, on writing jags, where I don’t leave the apartment at all. I will stay up all night writing and sleep during the day. I go out for coffee on my own, make my own meals, see theatre by myself. I like my life. I have a family, but I go to them, they don’t come to me.

I have BFF’s. Boni calls every morning to check in, plan a market run, or talk about writing. Chuy calls in the afternoon talks about his day. Sean texts from S.F. just to be shady, usually after midnight. Justin will call if too much time goes by with a simple ‘sup’.

Still, I kept thinking about the old man.

I don’t know him. I have said hello at most five times. I hear him when he picks up his newspaper early in the morning. But that’s about it.

I don’t know why but today I resigned myself to finding out if he was okay.

I called the landlord, who didn’t know anything, “Maybe he’s away” she said.

I asked my neighbor who lives below him, and she said she had heard a thump about a week ago and some crying, but it could have been anyone upstairs or next door.

What!

I called the landlord back and she told me his name, Icharo, and that he had paid rent on the first. She said she called him, and it went straight to voicemail.

I decided to go back upstairs before leaving for a meeting at school.

“Icharo? Are you there? Can you hear me? Do you need help?

I even got on Google translate. “Ichiro daijobudesuka?” which must have sounded terrible coming out of my mouth.

Why is this obsessing me so?

I went off to school and then decided to look up online how one does a wellness check on someone.

When I got home, I decided to call the non-emergency police department number that was suggested.

I put the phone on speaker at 1:40 PM and someone finally picked up at 2:57 PM! It’s enough to turn anyone off from helping, but I was writing, so I let the message repeat for over an hour until someone finally came on.

I told the operator all that I knew and then he asked if I would be there and how I knew Icharo. I said I didn’t know him at all, and he said, “Okay…” like he was surprised I would call.

A half hour later, I got an unlisted call, and it was LAPD. The officer was very nice and had me repeat all the details. He asked for my address and then said, “I’m standing outside your door.” Oh.

I came out and led him around the side of the building. He was a very nice young Latino guy and while I was pointing up to Icharo’s door on the second floor, he managed to jam open our mailbox and said that Icharo’s was full of mail.

He thanked me, told me he would call the landlord if he needed to get in, and made his way up as I went back to writing in my apartment.

I think the whole thing must have taken something from me because I never nap during the day and decided to lay down and was out for a whole thirty minutes. I woke up to the sound of more people and some rustling outside.

I peeked out and there was another cop car and a Fire Department ambulance. I went outside and two paramedics were rolling Icharo on a gurney trying to hold down his hands. A strange image of fragile elderly Icharo, nearly naked, reaching for the sun.

Two cops took off in the other car. The paramedics took off right away. Mr. Kim, my landlord, was standing in the driveway waiting for everyone to leave.

The young Latino cop saw me and came over.

“Thank God you called. He’s alive, but they said he was dehydrated and delirious, he had fallen and hadn’t eaten or had water for over a week.”

How did I know something was wrong? Maybe I wanted to know it for own self-preservation.

I winced at the thought that I took so long to do something about this. The cop must have noticed this because he said, “Your landlord should have checked in when you told him.”

He fist-bumped me, which was sweet and took off.

I waved to Mr. Kim, who smiled and put his hands together in a prayer pose and slightly bowed.

I turned around and walked into the apartment.

I looked at my silent empty space, my writing table, the only furniture in the room, and I burst into sobs.

It ran like a wave through me, and I let it have its course.

And then I sat down and finished writing my scene.