Sooooo, I was out walking Bev tonight when I stumbled upon what I think was a domestic disturbance, so I sort of broke it up, and then I called 911, and then the police came, and... oh, geez.
Okay, step by step.
Walking down Clinton Street. Historic section of Cobble Hill, so $$$.
On the corner of Baltic, a door to an apartment building opens and an Asian woman in her mid-fifties stumbles out. Her husband, also Asian in his mid-fifties, is standing behind her, trying to pull her back inside. She is struggling, crying, and can barely stand. She keeps saying, "Don't touch me, don't touch me."
The woman makes it to the sidewalk and walks towards me, so I say, "Are you okay?" She says no and grabs hold of my arm.
As the husband approaches, she cries harder and says, "Stay away, stay away," so I instinctively step between them. Does he look like an abuser? No, not really, but what does an abuser look like? I know it's probably not a safe thing to do, but I'm actually bigger than this guy, so I'm kind of scared but not really.
I say to the woman, "Do you want me to call someone?" She nods yes. I say, "The police?" She nods yes again. Then she collapses on the sidewalk and lays on her back.
As I get my phone out, the husband again tries to approach her and says, "Come on, come back inside." She cringes and sobs and again says, "Don't touch me." At this point, I don't know what happens but I grow a huge set of balls, put one foot on either side of her so I'm standing over her, like to protect her, and then I turn to the guy and scream, "BACK AWAY! DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" He totally backs away.
I dial 911 and a lady answers. I tell her exactly what happened. I say that I think it's domestic because she asks. The whole time I'm on the phone, the woman on the ground has a death-grip on my hand (I'm kind of squatted down now) and tears are streaming down her face. I'm telling her it's going to be okay. Beverly is just sitting next to us.
The 911 lady asks if this lady needs an ambulance. I say I don't know because I don't, so she gets all bitchy with me, like, "Listen, does she need one? I need to know." Well, listen, she's laying on the sidewalk bawling and gasping, so sure, send one.
At this point their son comes outside, maybe 17 years old. "Dad, what happened?"
"I don't know," says the husband. "I was sleeping and she just started sobbing and carrying on."
I tell this to the 911 lady, so she tells me to be careful because maybe the husband didn't hurt her, maybe she's crazy. Does she seem crazy? Well, she's scared to death of something, whether it's her husband or a figment of her imagination, I don't know. I will say, the only person she's freaking out about is him. Not me, not her son—just her husband. She won't let me go.
When the police finally arrive, they jump out of their car and start screaming, "Where's the perp?! Where's the perp?!" I don't know what to say because I don't know if the husband did anything or not, so I don't know if he's a perp. I try to explain this to the police but they keep screaming, "Where's the perp?! Where's the perp?!" So I point to the husband and say, "I guess if there's a perp, it's him." I mean, I know they have to be this way because what if this guy has a gun, but they needed to listen to me and no one was doing that.
As one of the police officers starts questioning him, the rest of them hover over this woman and start firing questions at her, "What's going on? Did he hurt you? What's wrong? What happened?"
The woman doesn't say anything because she's still scared of God knows what, so they try to pick her up and she's limp as a noodle.
"Who called us? Why are we here? Is she diabetic?" They look around for an explanation, so I once again try to explain what happened. And once again, everyone keeps cutting me off.
"Well, I was walking by and—"
"Did he hit her?"
"I don't know. She came stumbling out of the door and—"
"Did he hit her?"
"I don't know. They seemed to be—"
"Did he hit her?"
"I don't know. She just kept saying—"
"Did he hit her?"
"I DON'T KNOW."
The son is standing there, so they start asking him what happened. He doesn't say anything, then he says he doesn't know. He seems confused.
"Does your mom speak English?"
"Yes."
"Make her talk. Tell her to talk. If she doesn't talk I'm going to take her away in an ambulance. Where is the ambulance? Why are we here?" They start looking around again.
At this point, I turn to one of the only female cops there and tell her exactly what happened, that the lady cringed every time the husband tried to touch her and told me to call the police. But it was like no one hears me. Because the woman on the ground isn't talking, it's like they assume nothing happened or assume she's crazy—which maybe she is—but I think if she had some kind of mental problem the son or husband would say something like, "She's schizophrenic" or, "This has happened before." And also, maybe she's not saying anything because her husband is standing two feet away from her and she's scared.
Duh.
I once again try to tell them that she didn't want him to touch her and told me to call the police, so one of them turns to me with major attitude and says, "Okay, thank you. Bye bye, you can go now." And then he waves me away like I'm not moving quickly enough.
As Beverly and I turn to leave, I see the ambulance pull up, so that's it. I leave.
The whole thing was weird, but I feel as if I did the right thing. This woman either had a mental breakdown or her husband was abusing her. I just wish the police weren't such dicks.
I need a drink.
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