Good Sam was on his way back to work, a night job, after supper, and as he crosed the street, naturally with the light, he noticed, on the diagonal corner, a body stretched out on the sidewalk. Good Sam's first inclination was to press on and report back to his job, but then he recalled that his Daddy had taught him, amoung other arcane things, that a man does not leave another lying on the sidewalk, or along the railroad tracks.
Pedestrians of all sorts passed by the prostrate man's body, without looking at him, except for a scared, backward glance. So Good Sam recrossed two streets and examined the man. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth, and so Good Sam lay down beside him, cradled his head in the crook of his arm, uttered soothing incantations and tried to get passersby to call an ambulance. No one did. Then a plainclothes cop came by and demanded of the fallen man (or perhaps of Good Sam, he never knew which), "Have you been drinking?" and Good Sam responded that the oficer should stop flapping his Irish jowls and call an ambulance. Plainclothes cops can always be identified by their uniform: a gaudy plaid sportcoat, a mustache and a bulge on the hip.
The ambulance came, finally, and took the downed man off to George Washington University Hospital, and later Good Sam, the blood still on his jacket sleeve, called to find out how he was.
"He's in critical condition," a doctor said. "He was beaten and robbed over around 17th Street, and we think his spleen may be ruptured." Then he adked, "Are you the man who was lying with him on the sidewalk? Well, we have good news and bad news. The good news is that you probably saved him from drowning in his own blood."
And the bad news?
"We found him heavily infested with body lice."
For some bizarre reason the luncheon for an inter-American trade association meeting had been set up at the Playboy Club in Miami.Good Sam went as a reporter, although he wouldn't have known a peso from a bogota. On his way out, heading for his car, he saw a man fall in the driveway. The man writhed in pain.
"Your heart?" Good Sam asked.
"My back," the fallen man said.
A crowd had gathered, no one much interested in approaching too closely, so Good Sam called to a Bunny standing in the doorway to see if she could find a doctor in the club. Just like in the movies, there was. And, being before the days of enormous liability judgments, that doctor agred to come out and help.
The doctor questioned the victim, who was lying on his side, then ordered an ambulance to be called and decided to turn the victim onto his back, despite the objections of Good Sam, who had been a Second Class Boy Scout.
"Now," he told Good Sam, "shut up and take off your jacket and fold it up and put in in the small of his back, and I'll take mine off and put it under his head, and gently we'll rool him over onto his back."
So they did just that, and Good Sam, nattily attired in beltless slacks, squatted down to perform his part of the task, and his pants split from the waist to the crotch. It was a day, unfortunately, that Good Sam had chosen to emulate Ernest Hemingway in the underwear department.
The crown titered, and then one of the Bunnies, who had been watching from the doorway, strode over with those great long legs, and with a defiant look in her eye pulled Good Sam's trousers up and held them ther until the operation had been completed and Good Sam could get home to his needle and thread and his dry martini.
Good Sam was driving home one night from his job as a newspaper reporter, and the car in front of him did a number on a pedestrian, who was tossed into the air and landed on his head.Good Sam, being your typical reporter, didn't have a pencil or a pen, but being your average motorist had enough dust on the dashboard to write down the license number of the fleeing vehicle. Then he went into a 7-Eleven store and asked the manager to call the police and an ambulance, and then he realized that this was a news story. He returned to the fallen man, and asked his name, now long forgotten, and then asked if the man had a pencil or a pen, and the man pointed to his jacket pocket. As Good Sam removed it to write the man's name inside a matchbook cover the man sighed once and died.