The other night I walked to my usual
train stop. It was cold and I practically waddled down the sidewalk due to all
of my layers. My face still burned from the cold so really that was no help.
There are two entrances to the Wilson stop and for some reason I decided to use
the big one where the CTA personnel are stationed instead of the smaller, less
frequented entrance. As I stood and waited for the Walk Symbol to let me cross
the street I began twisting back and forth. I have a bad habit of dancing subtly
to the music from my iPhone, but during nights when the weather channels says
“feels like -3” I also do this just to stay warm.
As I twisted, a figure on the ground
caught my eye. Outside the Dollar Store window storefront, about ten feet away
from me, a man was laying on the ground. People lying on the ground is
obviously not an unusual site in any city, but he was on his back, which did
seem odd. Normally, people on the street curl up in the fetal position or at
least cover their head in some capacity. The man was also without any blankets
or boxes or trash bags, which automatically labeled him as “not homeless.” His
left leg was to the side of his body, bent at the knee, his calf parallel to
his back, and the toes of his foot just grazing his shoulder.
I thought about going to the man and
asking if he was okay. Like I said, he had none of the typical makings of a
homeless person. He wore dark jumpsuit pants with two white stripes running
down the side; the kind sports players wear when they’re working out. His upper
body was encased in a thick jacket, puffy vest, and a hood covered his head.
Everything about him said ‘not homeless,’ but I hesitated approaching the man.
Unfortunately, this particular corner of my neighbourhood is full of the most
unstable people. Between the Dollar Store and Currency Exchange, the corner of
Wilson and Broadway is rife with unsavory characters yelling at one another,
yelling at passersby, mentally unstable people hassling the presumably stable,
and so on and so forth. This corner is also known for a good bit of violence,
but since my parents read this blog I won’t go into any further detail on that.
I stared at the man and his
unnatural leg. I thought about the times when I had been yelled at by crazies
on the street and decided not to approach him. He was underneath a four-paneled,
brightly lit window. If something was wrong, surely someone would have noticed.
I crossed the street and walked into
the train station. I paused at the door and looked across the street to the
man. He hadn’t budged. I went up the stairs, beeped my card, and climbed the
next set of steps to the train platform. I walked to where I could see the
sleeping guy. A tall, lanky, hooded man stood over him. He looked like he was
talking to the man. Good, I thought, someone is checking on him. I crossed to
the southbound side of the platform and joined a super PDA couple in one of the
CTA’s heat lamp areas.
A fire truck from the station a few
blocks from the train stop came tearing out of its garage. It blasted through
an intersection and under the train platform. I texted a friend to see what she
was up to and ask what time we were meeting for the improv show that night. My
CTA Tracker app said my train would be approaching shortly. Mr. and Mrs. PDA were
obviously anxious to have the hot box back to themselves so I crossed back to
the northbound side of the platform.
The fire engine was parked outside
of the Dollar Store. Three policemen stood over the sleeping man and Tall And
Lanky was nowhere to be found. Three firemen sprang from the truck. Two of them
greeted the policemen while the third grabbed an emergency box from the side of
the truck. Damn that man is drunk, I
thought about Sleeping Man. Obviously the poor guy had gone on a bender and was
now so wasted he couldn’t even rouse himself for the emergency responders.
The fireman with the box put his
hand on Sleeping Man’s throat. The other five men stood and observed. The man
with the box walked back to the engine and put the box back in its designated
spot. The cops said something to the other firemen and they nodded.
I heard the rumblings of a train and
looked south to see the lights of my train approaching. I took a small step
back from the edge of the platform and looked back at what was happening on the
street. The fireman who had been carrying a box had his back to me and was
towering over Sleeping Man. The platform vibrated as the train began to slow
down. The fireman shook out a white sheet that I hadn’t seen him holding
earlier. He draped it over Sleeping Man’s body just as the train blocked my
view.
He’s
cold, was my immediate thought. He’s
cold and they’re covering him up with a blanket.
The train doors opened and I waited
as a few people exited the car. A man got onto the train in front of me and
stood on the far side of the car, the one that gave a perfect view to what was
happening outside the Dollar Store. I stayed on the opposite side of the car
and strained my neck to see what was happening. The doors closed and the train
began to pull away. I could still see the three cops and three firemen standing
on the sidewalk. By their feet was nothing but a white blur.
I arrived at Heartbeat a bit shaken.
I am one of those people, I thought, someone is in trouble and instead of cause a
scene I just look the other way. I am one of those people who let Kitty
Genovese die!
Now, it was pointed out to me soon
afterward that not only was the man obviously dead before I even happened upon
that street corner, but I had also done what any young woman would have done –
do not approach the strange man who could most likely be drunk and/or deranged.
Some people *cough*myboyfriend*cough* would quip, “That wouldn’t happen in a
small town,” and I wholeheartedly agree. Had that man been lying on the ground
on St. Simons Island I probably wouldn’t have given a second thought to going
over to him. Hell, I’m sure someone would have even witnessed the moment of his
collapse and come running. However, a lot of things happen in big cities that
do not happen in small towns. People are more likely to trust others in a small
town. Like that elderly couple in Vermont who opened their door to two young
men one night and were then brutally murdered. The point is, big city or small
town, crazy shit happens. (We could also get into a gender discussion because I
feel that a woman lying on the ground would garner great attention and concern
than a man on the ground, but that is a discussion for another time.)
I told a few of my coworkers of what
I had witnessed. I was somewhat amazed that most of them guessed the man was
dead by the second sentence. I continued to receive encouraging ‘you’re not a
horrible person’ texts from my closest friends while I completed my shuttle
driver duties.
Once the play started, I set up camp
in the box office so that I could kill the next two hours until I had to drive
patrons back to our parking lot. Jenny and Christine began emptying all the
trash bins to take to the dumpsters out back. As they made their way to the
door I asked if they wanted some help. Jenny, the Front of House Manager, said,
“No. Someone should stay in the theatre just in case something happens.” They
left and naturally I logged onto Facebook.
I had just begun looking at my
newsfeed when I heard the stage door fly open. Now, Heartbeat is not a large
theatre. Our house seats 95 people and the handicapped row is literally on the
stage. Our seats go up from the stage like stadium seating. Patrons use the
side door before and after a show, but in the curtain speech we ask that they
please use only the stairs located in the middle of the theatre because if they
were to use the door they entered through then they will be in the play. Sometimes people totally
disregard this and just use the side door anyways – even if it’s being used as
part of the set!
This is what I assumed had happened
when I heard that very door fly open. However, instead of the
naïve-bathroom-seeking patron I was expecting, one of our ushers came tearing around
the corner. “Call 911, a patron is having a seizure!” she exclaimed.
Instinctively I grabbed my cell phone even though her words did not compute. I don’t remember this part of the play,
was all I could think.
“What?” I manage to get out.
“They’re...what? Are – are they stopping the play?” I unlocked my phone. As I
did I remembered that iPhones are built so that you can call 911 from the Lock
Screen. Wow, I suck at emergencies.
“No. I don’t think anyone knows,”
the woman responded.
A dispatcher picked up the other
line and I began stumbling through a description of what was happening:
“Hi, I’m at 6978 N Morse Avenue –
Heartbeat Theatre. A patron has had a seizure.”
“Okay, ma’am, where is the location
again?”
“6978 N Morse Avenue. We’re right
off the Morse Red Line stop. Big black and white marquee.”
“How old is the person?”
“Umm...I’m not sure. We have old peop – 50. Let’s say no
younger than 50.” I paced around the lobby, poking my head out the front door
periodically to look for Jenny and Christine.
“Man or woman?”
“This is actually all happening inside the theatre. An usher
just came out and said that a patron was having a seizure.”
I heard movement in the lobby. Our two ushers were supporting
an older man and helping him to one of our couches. A woman stood to the side
of them and I recognized her as one of my shuttle passengers. “Male,” I said
into the phone. “The person with the seizure is male and,” I lowered my voice
and turned away from the group, “I’m gonna say about 70 years old.”
Finally, I saw Christine outside the door. I rushed over,
still on the phone with the dispatcher who was having a very hard time
understanding the address I was giving her. “A man had a seizure,” I explained
quickly to Christine. “I’m on the phone with 911 and the paramedics are on
their way.” Christine’s eyes went wide and she rushed back down the ramp
yelling, “Jenny!”
Within five minutes the fire department had arrived. The man
was stable and alert and the older woman with him seemed almost humoured by the
whole situation. In true Chicago theatre form, the play was still going. The
paramedics, the sick man, the older woman, and the ushers all stood just
outside the entrance to the theatre. Jenny put her head in her hands and turned
to me. “I want to tell them to be quiet,” she said, “but I feel like...you know.”
“Doesn’t feel quite appropriate?”
“I know,” she sighed exasperatedly. I did agree with her,
though. The paramedics certainly seemed to be unaware of where they were and
even our ushers began to converse at a normal speaking level.
As the paramedics wheeled the man out on a kind of
stretch-turned-wheel-chair, I approached the older woman and asked if she
wanted to be taken back to her car so that she could meet him at the hospital.
She said ‘yes’ and we left for the van.
Once inside the van, however, I longed for the noise of the
paramedics. How awkward was this going to be? Was she going to cry? Should I
give her words of encouragement? Was she the type of person who got angry and
lashed out at people instead of feeling sad?
To play it safe, I opted for neutral ground. “Do you know how
to get to the hospital?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” she responded. “I’ve been there many times. This
isn’t the first time this has happened?”
“No?” I prepared for waterworks. Some sort of ‘I’m just so
worried about him’ montage.
“Oh no. He has seizures all
the time!” she said in the same manner someone would joke, “He gets lost all the time!”
“Is he epileptic?” I asked. Having dated someone who was
epileptic I felt maybe we could find common ground.
“Nah. Just forgets to eat, that moron.”
“Ah.” This was certainly not where I envisioned the
conversation going. “How long have you two been married?”
“Married?! HA! He’s my boyfriend.”
“Oh!” I did not do well at disguising the shock in my voice.
“I’m sorry, I just assumed you two...were married?”
“We should be.” Her tone turned catty. “We’ve been dating for
seven years! He’s a widower. I don’t know though. We’ll see if things change after tonight.” She added a smug chuckle
and nod to herself.
By the time we reached her car I had also learned that the
man had children, whereas this woman did not, and he had had a seizure on their
very first date: “One minute we’re enjoying dinner with friends and the next –
there he is on the ground!” (I felt she wanted to add, “That rascal,” but maybe
thought it a bit disrespectful since he was currently in the back of the
ambulance.)
The end of that night could not have come soon enough. I was
exhausted, somewhat bewildered, and feeling a bit cursed. As I rode the train
back to my El stop, I peered out the window to where the man had been laying on
the ground. Nothing was there. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Police tape,
chalk outline, flowers? I guess I was just hoping for some sort of remembrance
to say, “A man died here tonight.” I didn’t know the man. I could not even tell
you what ethnicity or age he was, but it made me sad to know that someone could
just drop dead, anonymously on the side of the street, and four hours later
there was absolutely nothing to mark what had happened.
I’m sure someone on St. Simons Island would have placed a
wreath over the spot. In such a small town, something like that would have made
the nightly news and be featured on the front page of the Brunswick News for
the next two days. In Chicago, however, there wasn’t even a whisper of it. If
you didn’t see it, it was like it had never happened.
