There were two cop cars and a paramedic truck parked in front of the building next door. Someone was lying on the patch of ground between the sidewalk and the curb. Two paramedics were administering CPR. An ambulance arrived and two more paramedics wheeled a gurney over to the sidewalk.
Several people were gathered in front of my building. Everyone had a mask, but some had them pulled down below their chins. Nobody was observing the six-foot rule. Especially not the cops. I overheard a young woman say she'd found a man slumped over in his car and called 911. She was instructed to pull him out of the car and perform CPR until the paramedics arrived. I looked back toward the man on the ground. Then at the car parked beside him.
I turned back to the young woman, "Was it the blue car?"
She nodded. "Oh shit," I said. "I know him."
The blue car belonged to our building manager, Gordon, a man I've known since the day I moved in, nearly two decades ago. I knew him about as well as you know anyone else who lives in your building -- we'd stop to chat occasionally as we passed each other on the way in or out. I remember when he got the new car, the blue one. He'd had his old one about as long as I've had mine, which is way too long, and was pretty happy with the upgrade. Gordon lived alone and I never saw him with family or friends. I knew he had a cat because he'd built a wire-enclosed walkway on the outside of his third floor windows so the cat could walk outside from one window to another. I thought that was pretty cool.
I saw the paramedics preparing to inject Gordon with epinephrine in hopes of stimulating his heart. I knew this because of my research for a TV script I'd written. I'd never actually seen it done before. They gave him the injection, but it didn't seem to help. By now they had rigged up an automatic compression machine that was pumping his heart for him and causing his body to spasm with each compression. His skin was pale and his entire body was limp. I couldn't see his face.
The police asked me to identify him so I moved closer, but they made me stop. I told them who the blue car belonged to and that he was the manager of my building. They asked me how old he was but I had no idea. I guessed mid-fifties.
The paramedics were clearing the immediate area and attaching electrodes to Gordon for defibrillation. Everyone stood back. I could see his face now. It was him, but ashen and lifeless. One of the paramedics said, "Clear." Gordon's body jolted from the shock of the defibrillator. The paramedics waited for a moment, checking his vitals, then tried again. "Clear." Another jolt. More waiting. More checking. Nothing.
The people on the sidewalk shared random thoughts, "I just saw him the other day." "I didn't know he was sick."
The four paramedics transferred Gordon onto the gurney. The CPR machine was back in place. They wheeled him over to the ambulance and loaded him inside. I saw his face again as they went past. I knew it was probably the last time I would see him.
I spoke to the young woman who had tried to revive Gordon. We traded numbers so I could keep her apprised of his condition. Her name was Brianna. She said she felt invested.
The police gave me Gordon's keys to hold onto. My hallmate volunteered to go up and look in on the cat. Those of us remaining on the sidewalk said awkward goodbyes. Eventually the police cars drove away and we all went inside.
I called the Sheriff's station and got the name of the hospital. When I called the hospital, I was told Gordon was 'under evaluation.' I didn't know what that meant, but I wanted it to mean there was still hope. I waited an hour and called again. This time I was told he'd been discharged.
I was confused, "Discharged? You mean they sent him home?"
"Discharged from the ER."
"What does that mean?"
I was transferred to the ER, where I was told that Gordon was no longer a patient.
"So he didn't make it?" I asked.
"We can't give out any information."
Later that night I got a text from my landlord. Gordon had died. I waited until the next morning to pass on the sad news to Brianna. She told me she was devastated. I told her that the fact that she cared enough to do something meant a lot. She seemed comforted by that. I hope so.
I don't know, and will never know, why Gordon died. But I don't think it was a random coincidence. When an otherwise healthy man drops dead in the middle of a pandemic, there has to be a connection. I'm sure he tried to stay safe like we all do, but masks and gloves are not magic talismans. It's one thing to hear politicians talk about 'acceptable percentages' and another thing altogether to watch a friend dying on the sidewalk right in front of you.
Sometimes we don't take things seriously until they hit close to home. There are a lot of people who seem to be in denial of what's happening in the world today. I hope it doesn't take a tragedy for them to wake up to reality. But I'm afraid it probably will.
