I already knew that I was going to be late. It was 6:30am, last Sunday. I was waiting for the D train at 36th Street, on my way to Central Park. I was volunteering to work the Central Park Marathon and Half Marathon. I was so tired, and trying to figure out a way to doze off while standing up. Where the hell was the D. All I wanted to do was sit on the train so I could get some
actual sleep between Sunset Park and Columbus Circle.
Then I heard these weird foot steps. I looked up and staggering along the platform was this dirty disheveled Drunk Guy. He had no clue where he was or how he got there. He reached the staircase, and it took him a while to figure out how to climb them. He kept trying to walk through another guy and then the banister before going around.
What the hell am I doing up at this hour, I'm about to go to Central Park to do bag check, while other people run. I mean I get credit towards future races, which is very cool. And the people who volunteer for my 5Ks are always so incredible. And like my open mics, we need to get out there and support each other.
I thought about the personal stories of Scott Jurek and Rich roll, how in spite of their financial hardships, trained and traveled for ultra marathons. They too wondered at various points why they continued.
The Drunk Man came back down the steps. He looked as if he was going to stumble his way to the other end of the platform but then he curved and stopped at the edge. He looked up the track to see if there was a train coming. And the, either by choice or accident, he fell face down onto the tracks between the rails.
Two bystanders climbed down to the tracks to help him. I shouted
I'm going for help! as I ran up the platform. Momentarily I felt the instinct to help they guys drag the Drunk Man. But rule number one they teach you in first-aid school is to
check the scene. I can't put myself in danger and assist in an emergency at the same time. And I can't stop a D train traveling at 60 miles per hour between 9th Avenue and 36th Street. I passed these two men struggling to get the Drunk Man to his feet. Some other Douche Bag Bystander says to me
Don't worry about it. They've got him. I kept going. I ran up the steps to the token booth. Two of the MTA's Finest were working inside. I barreled through the turnstile and yell through the glass,
A man fell on the tracks. We need help right away.
MTA'S FINEST 1
(blase)
Somebody fell on the tracks?
ME
(with urgency)
YES!
MTA'S FINEST 1
You're kidding me.
She doesn't move.
ME
(insulted)
No. I'm not kidding.
She rolls her eyes, grabs a set of keys and steps out of the booth. I tried to rush her, being that this was an emergency and all, but I also knew better. I told her that he was apparently intoxicated and that two guys were trying to help.
By the time we reached them on the platform, everyone was off the tracks. Even the Drunk Guy was conscious and standing, but really messed up. He was bleeding from the nose, mouth and knees. I said to MTA's Finest, "There he is. That's the guy who fell," as if I had to. The Douche Bag bystander says, he's fine.
You know you didn't have to go and do that.
And I said,
Dude. He either fell or jumped. Either way, he does need help.
(Pause, pause, don't say it, don't say it)
ME
Macho shit head.
(There. I said it.)
And I walked away. They tell us in first aid school that our job is done when someone of higher training takes over. I know in this situation respective training levels are . . . debatable. But I had a race to get to, so I could surround myself with healthier and more like minded people.
