NEWSLETTER

PHOTO BY BEN RITTER




I’m kind of an earnest Buddhist hippie, so the first thing I felt was true compassion for the guy because he’s completely bonked out his mind and he’s standing there naked in the hallway and he can’t even remember his own name. I’ve been a musician on the road for years so this is not an unusual thing for me. The poor guy could not even keep himself up straight, so he didn’t really seem like much of a threat.

So anyway, it was about 3 AM and I heard someone knocking on the door. I got up to see who it was. I looked through the peephole and I couldn’t see that the guy was naked. I just saw his face. He was saying something that I think he thought was English but it wasn’t really. He looked kind of upset so I opened the door but I planted my foot at the base of it and my knee behind it so I could get it about as wide as my chest and talk to him, but if he were to make a single move, the door would be shut before he could do anything.

So I see that he’s naked—and he’s got quite a few tattoos, by the way—and it’s clear that he’s not a threat, he’s just whacked out of his head. I said, “Can you remember if you came home with a guy or a girl?” He said it was a girl. I said, “Good start, there are only three apartments with girls. Do you remember if it was up or down?” He said no. I said, “Can you remember your name?” He said no. He just kept saying, “Please, if you could just help me find the apartment. I know it sounds crazy—I just can’t remember anything.” He wasn’t upset or weird. He was really subdued.

Being a Buddhist, I thought, whether or not it’s drugs or alcohol, this guy is disoriented and he’s not faking it. And he’s naked. So I said, “Look, I don’t think you’re a bad person, but I can’t leave the apartment and wander the halls with you. I’m sorry. But let’s just start with the basics—how about a towel?”

So I got him a towel and by that time someone else in the building had already called the police so I didn’t get a chance to help him. I probably would have. I don’t even know how he got up the stairs. He was leaning against the wall, like he had to go to the bathroom really bad, like crossing his legs and hunched over. He was moving really slow and slurring his words.

There were four cops and one looked like a lieutenant. We’re on a really nice block in a nice neighborhood, and, in my opinion, if this guy had been African-American he would have been arrested. We had had a small break-in about two weeks earlier—turns out a homeless guy was sleeping in our basement—and it totally freaked everyone out so we were all already on edge and then this happened. Everyone’s pretty furious at the neighbor who brought him home. I saw her in a café afterward and I said, “Listen, I know in the end it turned out to be just one of those things. Mostly I’m just concerned that you’re OK. I’m totally not judging you for anything, but at the same time, unfortunately, the other people in the building thought they were being robbed and they are really freaked out and furious.” Afterward, she posted a letter on her door explaining what happened and apologizing. I think that helped.

My girlfriend was furious at me for opening the door, but ultimately I’ve been in so many bizarre situations in so many different countries—I’ve been doing music since I was 16 and I’m in my late 30s now—that you just learn how to read a situation. I saw a young, tattooed, artistic naked guy in the hallway who just took one too many pills. I took it with a grain of salt and a sense of humor.

The next day, my neighbor left my towel outside my door with a little note that said “thank you.”

IT HAPPENED | 1 | 2 |

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