From: Patrick Townson
Newsgroups: misc.misc
Subject: Someone Somewhere May be Grieving ...
Date: 15 Sep 92 03:00:00 GMT
Reply-To: ptownson@eecs.nwu.edu
Organization: The World


    I dream'd in a dream I saw a city invincible ...
    Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love ...

        Walt Whitman's  "I Dream'd in a Dream"


Another day in Chicago ...

Coming home from downtown one evening, I entered the transit subway at
Jackson Boulevard and State Street, my usual place to board for my
trip home. Unlike many nights when I have to wait a few minutes for a
northbound train to arrive, that evening a train was parked in the
station when I went down the stairs from the ticket booth to the lower
level, and I hurried along hoping to jump on at the last minute and
not have to wait another five or ten minutes for the next train. As it
turned out, I had plenty of time. 

The train was standing there, the passengers inside mostly oblivous to
their surroundings, reading their newspapers, etc or staring off into
space. When I saw another train parked immediatly behind the one I
would ride, and a train parked immediatly in front of us, I knew there
was a delay of some kind and decided to stand by the door awhile
before boarding.

After a couple minutes, when no indication had been given that the
train would be leaving anytime soon, I decided to walk north through
the subway on the passenger platform and see what was causing the
delay. The State Street subway in Chicago is a long continuous
underground walkway where people can walk for a distance of several
blocks to avoid the rain and cold weather outside if desired. I walked
north a couple hundred yards to the next station north -- Monroe
Street -- and a train was parked there also heading north. Another bit
of walking got me to Randolph Street where the first train in the
group of now four or five trains on the northbound track was parked
silently. 

Like the trains behind, the passengers sat inside like zombies, just
staring into space or reading their papers or in some cases talking to
their riding partner.  In front of the first train in the station on
the tracks lay the mangled body of a man. Two police officers were
standing on the platform busy preparing the gear they had brought with
them for the occassion.

"We'll go down there when you're ready," said one officer into his
walkie-talkie radio. Within a couple seconds came the familiar three
tone chirp on the loudspeakers throughout the subway and a voice said
to everyone, but no one in particular, "Okay, power's going off on the
northbound Howard line between Jackson and Grand Avenue. Power's going
off, conductors, your trains will have the backup battery lighting."

And instantly, there was silence as the train motors halted. The
lights in the train cars went off, pitching the cars into darkness for
just a second as the battery backups took over and two or three lights
in each car flickered on.

Now some of the passengers had become interested in the affair. Others
were not particularly interested and some were impatient to get on
their trip; still others saw the occassion as a chance to have a quick
cigarette on the platform while waiting for service to be restored.
Almost immediatly, the trains began emptying out of passengers who
stood on the platform smoking, gawking at the scene in front of them
or staring into space, perhaps trying to avoid viewing the scene in
front of them.

With the power turned off, the two police officers jumped off the
platform onto the tracks with their stretcher and 'body bag'. Silently
they worked for just a minute or two gathering up the gentleman whose
life had ended abruptly a few minutes earlier. Into the bag and onto
the stretcher. Close the bag; sit the remains up on the platform. The
officers climbed back up onto the platform, hoisted the stretcher with
the bag and started toward the escalator. Talking into his radio, one
officer says they are coming upstairs; he assumes the 'wagon' is
waiting for them; the response is affirmative. 

Stepping onto the escalator, the stretcher and bag with its cargo are
bumped against the railing by accident. The officers catch it as it
tips over and one says, "Watch out! Be more careful!" to which the
other one replies he supposes the client won't care ... It is decided
the 'client' had no identification in his possession. His identity
will remain unknown until forensic tests are made and his fingerprints
taken by morgue technicians later in the evening. Then presumably
someone somewhere will be telephoned and advised their husband/lover/
son/father/roomate/whoever won't be coming home, and why. 

The police officers tussle with their load and ride silently up the
escalator to the mid-level where fares are collected, then up the next
escalator to the street level where a disinterested 'wagon man' sees
them approach and opens the back door of the wagon to accept their
cargp. The door is slammed shut and the wagon drives away. 

Downstairs, a conductor realizes that no one has bothered to tell the
subway controllers that the power can be restored. He chats on his
radio briefly with someone, and almost immediatly the three tones are
sounded on the loudspeakers and notice given that power is coming on
once again ... in perhaps ten seconds a 'whir' of noise as the motors
on the trains start and the lights inside the cars come on once again.

Seeing his passengers milling about on the platform, he calls in a
loud voice, 

  "All aboard ... come on folks, let's get going. I'm already twenty
   minutes behind schedule!  All aboard! "

The passengers, like cows being called, begin to filter back into the
train only to find their seats have all been taken by the folks who
were standing earlier and were smart enough to NOT get off the train
for that quick cigarette break. The ones now standing look angrily at
the ones newly seated ...

Each car has a telephone the conductor can use to talk with his
supervisors at various points along the subway/elevated line. If the
telephone is not off hook, then messages from the supervisors instead
will be heard over the loudspeakers in each car ... and the inevitable
message is heard,

   "Conductor, things are jammed up. Run express to Howard Street.
   Conductor, repeat the announcement to your passengers."

No repetition was required because it had come over the loudspeakers
rather than the conductor's telephone, but dutifully he repeats it to
his passengers, "We're going express Randolph to Howard Street."

The cows which had just minutes before boarded the train begin
stampeding out the door along with some who had remained aboard during
the confusion. Now the seating configuration changes again, and with
only the passengers on board who intended to ride to Howard Street
anyway, there are seats for *almost* everyone ... some who had lost
their seats earlier now have them again; the crowd on the platform is
left behind as the train speeds away.

The train which had been parked immediatly behind pulls in and the
passengers on the more crowded than usual platform begin elbowing
their way into the newly arrived train. When the train does not leave
immediatly, there are suspicious glances among the passengers; they
know what is coming next -- it just has to be spoken and the message
comes soon enough:

   "This train will run express to Morse Avenue. Morse the next stop
    due to delays."

Now like angry hornets whose nesting place for the trip home has been
disturbed again, the passengers swarm out of the second train; that
is, the ones not intending to ride as far as Morse Avenue. Others on
the platform who have just arrived hear the news and push into the
train happily; they'll get home sooner than usual because of no
interim stops on 'the delayed northbound train ...'

With the third train pulling in, the passengers have grown wise enough
to *wait* and not board the train until they hear that it will run
express to Belmont Avenue ... then with the announcement several
on board get off and others on the platform get on ... good news,
there will be a seat going home tonight! Thank you, Mister Suicide,
whoever you were.

Two more trains edge in one behind the other and it is announced they
will have their usual stops. More crowded than ever by the delay, none
the less everyone squeezes aboard and the trains depart. 

All the trains have now pulled out which were ganged up parked in the
downtown subway and the platform is almost empty of passengers. A man
approaches wearing the uniform of a janitor for the Transit Authority.
With him is another man; the union he belongs to refers to his job
title as a 'flagman'.  The flagman stands on the tracks several yards
to the south with his flag ... the janitor carries a water hose and
squee-gee mop down onto the runway where the tracks are laid. Running
the water, he flushes the remains -- the bits of skin, the blood, the
things that remain of the suicide toward the big sewer opening. Then
with his squee-gee he finishes the clean-up. 

A train approaches from the south ... the flagman waves his flag in
the air and makes motions with it the train engineer understands to
mean there has already been one life purposefully ended at this place
today; let's not have a couple more ended by accident. The train slows
down while the flagman and janitor stand flat against the wall holding
their hands to their side. The train pulls through *v-e-r-y* slowly,
then speeds up again to go on its way. The janitor and flagman resume
their positions and the janitor finishes his work.

I must wonder about the man who ended his life there ... what had
caused him to be so upset? Had he lost his job that day? Had a fight
with his wife? Been evicted or sued in court and lost? 

The papers the next day did not name him. They said merely that an
unknown black male, age approximatly twenty had jumped in front of a
northbound train the night before, causing service in the State Street
subway to be disrupted for about twenty minutes while the power was
off and police removed the remains. 

Perhaps someone somewhere is grieving. 



Patrick Townson