Close to Home

I've been hearing a lot of sirens lately. Or at least it seems that way. Whenever I hear a siren, I think, just don't be coming this way. I'm always relieved when I hear them pass by. Someone else's bad luck. But the other day I heard a siren that kept getting closer, and closer, and closer. It sounded like it stopped right outside my apartment building. I put on my mask and went outside to investigate.

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.

Hitching to Davidson

Author Dean Rama Christ reads a passage from The Fire and The Rose describing a Kerouac-like hitchhiking odyssey in North Carolina in the late '70s The Fire and The Rose is available on #AmazonBooks click here

Midnight on the D Train

As I board the train, a few minutes after midnight, the subway looks nearly as crowded as if it were midday. Populated with second-shift commuters, dragging their tired asses home to Flatbush, Bay Ridge, Brighton Beach and a dozen other neighborhoods after another long workday’s journey into night. Faces slack with resignation and sleep deprivation, just hoping to get home in time to grab a late dinner and maybe see something good on TV before snatching a few hours’ sleep and starting the whole dreary routine again tomorrow.

I don’t work the second shift. My workday began around 9:30 a.m. as usual, but I had a couple of deadlines hanging over me, so instead of catching my usual rush-hour train home, I find myself amongst the bleary-eyed on the midnight D Train. The warning bell chimes, the doors close, and we roll on toward downtown and Brooklyn.
I snag my favorite seat, back to the wall and directly next to the door. I like having the pole right there for stability, and also because I once read an article about using the pole for leverage in certain defensive moves in case things get sketchy. So far I’ve never needed to deploy any defensive moves on the subway, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to perform them if I have to, but it’s a comfort to know the pole is available if anything goes down.
A quick survey of my fellow travelers reveals a mostly working-class vibe, some in the uniforms of their trade: food service, custodial, security, delivery, retail etc. Others wear the less formalized but still standard uniform of the middle-level office worker, i.e., comfortable shoes, skirts or slacks (not jeans) and shirts with collars and buttons. A few sport a more professional look, but there are no suits on this train. Anyone who wears a suit and works this late gets a voucher for a town car home. This train don’t carry no vouchers.
One of the more professional-looking passengers sits diagonally across from me, in the seat on the other side of the opposing doorway, next to the pole. Maybe she read the same article about subway self-defense that I did. She’s petite and pretty, but with a decidedly low-key, no-nonsense air about her. She wears a thin gold ankle bracelet that glints in the harsh fluorescent light. It catches my eye. I’m not the only one who notices.
A lanky dude sprawls across from her, wearing jeans and work boots and a canvas jacket with that fake sheepskin lining. He leans forward on the edge of his seat, his forearms on his thighs, and speaks to her in a low, resonant voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can tell that it’s directed at her. I can also tell that she doesn’t like it.
Her downcast eyes do their best to avoid his intrusive gaze, but her tight jaw and stiff shoulders shriek, “Go away!” He continues his monologue, either unaware of her unease, or perhaps turned on by it. She tries to ignore him, but he is clearly bothering her. At one point she responds, in a voice too soft for me to understand. She might be trying to discourage him in some way. She obviously doesn’t want him to continue. But whatever she's saying, it isn’t working. He leans even further forward into the open space between them and resumes his verbal assault.
I now lean forward on the edge of my seat, one hand on the pole, ready to lunge. I want so badly to do something, to leap to her rescue, to run off this dirtbag who keeps sniffing around where he isn’t wanted. It’s a primal thing, emanating from deep down in my lizard brain: Save the girl! But this is New York and there are unspoken rules about getting involved in other people’s business. There are lines you don’t cross, especially late at night on the subway. Besides, I’ve learned through clumsy experience not to assume that women need or even want my help. She’s an adult who can take care of herself. Better to let her find her own solution.
But it’s getting hard to watch.
The train rumbles up out of the tunnel and onto the lower level of the Manhattan Bridge. Normally this would be the highlight of the ride, where the claustrophobic darkness of the tunnel gives way to the glittering lower Manhattan skyline, framed by the Brooklyn Bridge, as it spans the East River with a kind of formidable grace. An inspiring sight on most evenings, but tonight it seems empty and false. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed the creepy tableau at the front end of the car.
The guy sitting across from me leans forward just like I do, his attention riveted on the unwanted suitor. Same with the guy in the nearby forward-facing seat, and the guy across from him, and the two guys behind them. There must be at least six of us poised for action, muscles tensed, jaws clenched, attention focused on the wolf in the sheepskin jacket. But nobody moves. A couple of them acknowledge my glance, but most keep their eyes fixed on the target. The situation has galvanized our lizard brains. We have formed into a cadre. Or maybe a mob.
The train rattles as we come off the bridge and descend back into the darkness of the tunnel. The next stop is DeKalb Avenue, where you can transfer to the BMT line. Maybe the woman with the ankle bracelet will get off there. But for now, the wolf in fake sheepskin still has her cornered, if only through sheer relentlessness. What does he think will happen? That she eventually succumbs to his advances and invites him back to her apartment for the night? Can he not perceive her revulsion and fear? Or is fear the whole point? I really want to smash his face.
The lights of the DeKalb station flicker past the windows. Brakes squeal and the train rocks slightly as it slows. The platform is nearly empty. We screech to a jerking halt, our car positioned toward the back end of the train. The woman with the ankle bracelet scans the platform. The bells chime and the doors open. She stands and strides out of the car, past her aggressor. He hardly seems to notice.
I watch through the open doors as she walks up the platform. Few things are certain in life, but the fact that you can never find a cop when you need one is all but guaranteed. Especially in Brooklyn after midnight. But I think I spot a transit cop standing in the middle of the platform, about thirty feet away. The woman with the ankle bracelet must see him too, because she’s making a beeline right for him. Fake sheepskin hasn’t moved. I can see the woman talking to the transit cop and then I hear the warning bell. The doors shudder. All I need to do is reach my left hand out about a foot and catch hold of the door to prevent it from closing. The door jolts against my grip, and then automatically slides back open.
The woman and the cop come back to our car and step inside. She points to the man in the fake sheepskin jacket and the transit cop takes him by the arm and stands him up. I can’t make out what he says but it’s a short and one-sided conversation. Fake sheepskin offers no resistance. Possibly not his first encounter with law enforcement. The warning bell chimes again, but I still have a tight hold on the door and I keep it open until the transit cop hustles fake sheepskin out onto the platform.
The woman with the ankle bracelet regains her seat. The bell chimes and the doors now close without hindrance. I look around the car. No one sits forward on the edge of his seat. No more tension, no more aggression. The natural order has been restored. I lean my head back against the subway map and close my eyes, thinking about a line I’d read in the Tao Te Ching. Something about how the sage takes action by doing nothing. Or maybe it’s all dumb luck. What are the odds of finding a transit cop right when you need one? Either way, I’m glad that the woman with the ankle bracelet found her own solution. I open my eyes and glance over at her. She seems at peace. I close my eyes again as the train lurches forward, bringing us all back where we belong.