Category: EMT (Page 1 of 2)

The dispatcher told us that our call involved a specific set of railway tracks and we were struggling to find them. Despite being very familiar with our area, we were going in circles and constantly referring to our paper map. Computer terminals had yet to be mounted into ambulances at that time and there was no way for us to access all of the call information the way we can now. The dispatcher, who was also juggling a screen full of dozens of other jobs to be handed out, did what he could to contact the agencies involved in requesting us, in order to provide us with some better details.

With it’s grid-like design Manhattan is considered by most people, to be the easiest of the five boroughs to navigate. The numbered streets and world known landmarks make it a far cry from my native Queens, for example, which is notorious for successive streets that are all numbered 60 (60th Place, 60th Lane…). But we weren’t exactly looking for a particular street. We needed to find a part of the infrastructure below the city and that was our problem.

Beyond the miles of roads and streets, an almost parallel world exists underneath, of tunnels and various other structures that make up a subterranean landscape set up to assist the city above it. There are miles of tunnels and pathways at many different subway stops and there are also numerous miles of track for the various railways that service the city. Several levels of infrastructure, some abandoned, are utilized by different agencies. Once we found the area where our purported man-hit-by-a-train would be, it would be another endeavor to find our way in.

We were eventually assisted by a few officials from the railway service who directed us 20 blocks south towards an entrance that was well-hidden from the general public. It led to more of an underworld city than a tunnel, almost looking like the framework for an underground building. They assured us no other trains were running and had us follow a small group of train representatives along one of the tracks. It was pitch black in some areas and then suddenly we would make our way to an area flooded with natural light. Then we’d be back in the tunnel and then, soon enough, in an open field-like area. It was in this field area that we had reached our destination. Here the train had come to a stop. It was surrounded by people in various official uniforms mulling around and consulting each other. We were directed to the front, where the train had slowly been moved backwards a few feet.

“Man under a train” tends to imply that a man will be found, perhaps underneath or thrown to the side, of a train. But when a human being is struck by a high speed locomotive he is, more often than not, disintegrated into hundreds of meaty pieces of flesh and blood. Part of a man was under this train, other parts were spread out across the gravel nearby. We had been sent to basically do paperwork on someone who, just an hour ago was a regular person like the rest of us, but had now completely transformed into a disorganized array of unidentifiable biological material.

The long trail of what had once been a human being was spread across a length of metal and machinery. Some was attached to the undercarriage of the train that had ripped him apart. A lone dirty sneaker, badly ripped, had been torn away and lay in the grass, surviving in better physical shape than the person who had worn it.

The train was carrying a high number of passengers but none had seen the impact. What they had seen was the man kneeling on the tracks, facing the oncoming train. They were visibly shaken, some were very upset and traumatized. They would forever have the image ingrained in their memory of a human being at once annihilated by the force of something they were inside of.

We found the train conductor surrounded by people from his agency. He was listening and nodding to things they were saying and seemed less shaken up than the passengers. We were going to see if he would come with us to, perhaps, speak to someone at the hospital. He initially told us no but we let him know we would be there for some time doing paperwork and should he change his mind in the interim, we would be happy to take him. He thanked us and continued to speak with his supervisors.

We interviewed some of the passengers as well. None of them wanted to go to the hospital either but they spoke to us about how eerie it was to see the young man sitting on the tracks awaiting the impact of the train. He knew the train was coming?

Oh yes, he definitely did.

We had no information on the victim. There was no ID, not even a description really. I was ready to do a call report that would basically have the word ‘unknown’ scrawled in every box. One of the railway officials, however, suggested I try asking among a small group of people huddled underneath the next section of tunnel. As I turned towards the three or four people looking at all of us in the darkness of the structure ahead, I asked who they were. The man smiled. “They live there. I think our victim might have been one of them.”

One of them?

I made my way over to the next overpass area where the little group was. They seemed surprised to see me coming towards them. One person backed up and walked away. They looked like they were in their early 20’s and had messy, long hair. One of them wore thick glasses with a deep, clear scratch across both lenses. Their skin was covered in a thick coating of dirt but underneath you could see that they were white, very pasty white.

“Did any of you see what happened? Did you know the victim?” I asked.

They looked at each other like they weren’t sure what to do. Eventually one of them, tall and very skinny, said “Yeah.” And nothing else.

“Which one? You saw what happened or you knew the victim?”

Nothing. Perhaps they were traumatized and in shock.

“I know this was a terrible accident…” I started.

“Oh it was no accident,” said the tallest in the group. “He waited on those tracks a long time.” The others nodded in agreement.

“So you saw him waiting on the tracks?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you know him?” I asked. They all nodded.”What’s his name?”

“I think it’s Joseph,” said one of them.

“No, it’s Allen,” said the tall one.

“I called him Bo,” said the man with the glasses.

This didn’t seem like it was going to be helpful. “Can any of you tell me anything about him? Like his birthday? Where he lived?”

“He lived here,” said the man with the glasses.

“Here?” I asked, somewhat surprised. What was over here? How did these guys even find this place?

“Yes,” they said, “Back there. With the others.” They pointed into the darkness of the tunnel.

“People live in here?” I asked.

They looked at each other as if to say “of course.” They seemed surprised that I didn’t know.

“A lot of people live here.” said the man with the glasses.

At that point my partner had made his way over. He seemed very interested in the little group and curious about what was behind them in the darkness. “I’ve heard about these people,” he said.

“What people?” I asked.

“The community,” he answered. “It’s like a whole other city under here.” Then he turned to the other men and asked “Am I right?”

“Yes you are, sir,” said the tall man.

“Would you mind showing us around?” my partner asked.

The three men nodded cautiously. “There’s not that much to see,” said the man with the glasses. One of the train employees had also come over and asked if he could join in on the tour. Everyone seemed to know about this odd little group of people living here when just a half hour ago we couldn’t even find this place. I was curious about what the big deal was about this particular group of homeless people, when we had plenty of other homeless people in the city above this one.

Like tourists seeing the sights of a foreign culture we were directed by our reluctant guides. Two of the three men flicked on flashlights that I hadn’t noticed they had and they started walking slowly into the darkness of the wide tunnel. They were joined by another man along the way who also had glasses and dirty blondish hair. He was wearing pants with greasy stripes on them and appeared to be a little older than the other men. This man was far more amiable, as well. He seemed to welcome the chance to show visitors around.

“Hello!” he said. “My name is Mike. I suppose you’re all here because of the train hitting our friend, Eddie. I’ll show you where he stayed.” We thanked him and asked if he could give us some information about our patient. He told us no, no one here could. He explained that they all kept to themselves and there was no pressure to interact.

“How long have you been living here?” my partner asked Mike.

Mike stopped and looked like he was trying to figure out the question. “That’s very hard to say. We don’t really keep track of time down here. I couldn’t tell you what year it is, or even whether it’s spring or fall.” He went on. ” It’s very dark down here and difficult to know when one day ends and the next begins. It could be, I’ve been here three years. It could be 15.”

The more we made our way into the tunnel the stronger the smells became. There was a faint petroleum scent throughout but it was being overwhelmed by the odors of things rotting. It hung in the air like a physical presence.

We came to a little sitting area. As the light from the torch moved around, a few rats scampered away. There were some chairs and stools arranged into a crooked oval around what was probably a fire pit. Two people, a man and a woman, were sitting in two of the chairs but not near each other and not talking to each other. Without the flashlight there was not much anyone would be able to see, unless their eyes had adapted to a superhuman degree, so they were just sitting quietly in darkness together.

A few feet away were several milk crates that were filled with canned goods and some boxes. Others contained pots and pans and various other kitchen items. If they never went outside where did they get supplies? There were some larger boxes stacked up and what looked like a sink, though I didn’t see where a water source was hooked up. A few TV tray type tables were scattered around with chairs or upturned milk crates set up next to them. As we continued to follow the light of the flashlight I turned my head and looked back at the two people we had just passed by. There was some slight residual light from the flashlight and the end of the tunnel in the distance but it was mostly just darkness. And the two people were just sitting there, awake and not doing anything at all.

It was eerily quiet here, except for some occasional sounds, like water dripping or a sudden frightful yell that no one but us ‘outsiders’ took notice of. The air seemed stifling and there were pockets we passed through where the smell of decay and rot was more powerful.

Behind the kitchen area, we came to a row of makeshift apartments. They were all different sizes and made of different materials. Most of them had no roof with the gap between the walls and the ceiling of the tunnel being at least 5 feet. Some had doors that were closed and others had locks on them. As the flashlight passed by the open doors you could see that some were sparsely furnished while others had dividers with decided living and sleeping areas. Some had artwork or photographs tacked up on the walls. It was interesting to see how many random household items had been acquired by the residents. Many apartments had small television sets, one with a VCR and some movies lined up next to it. They had gotten sofas, wall units, and dressers down here. Perhaps there were other entrances that had facilitated this?

As we walked by one open door, we could see two rats curled up on the bed. They looked up as we walked by. “That’s Moe and Curley,” said the tall, skinny man. “Larry must be out hunting.” This was his residence.

Most of them seemed unorganized and dirty, though I suppose if you lived in almost complete darkness there was no need to do any dusting or cleaning. We came to one apartment, however, that was immaculate. That one, said Mike, had belonged to our patient.

With the door open, we asked to look for ID and Mike led the way. The apartment had a queen size bed set-up, made on top of a low set of drawers. The short dresser was topped with a box spring and mattress, and covered in a decorative duvet with matching pillows. He had built up one wall to be a shelving unit. His clothes were folded with precision, all were exactly the same width, and were arranged by color. There were a few books, some framed photos of NYC scenery, several cameras and some small decorative items. One shelf contained food items and two plates and two cups. Near the entrance stood a little desk with a small writing lamp. We switched it on to find a small pile of envelopes. On top of the envelopes was a drivers license. Our patient’s name was Arthur Lundgren. He was 28 years old and the license was from Wisconsin. There were six stamped and sealed envelopes with a note to “Please Mail”. They were addressed to people with Wisconsin addresses, presumably family and friends. There was also one addressed to Mike, which he opened. He said it was a list of who he wanted to give his belongings to, like a will.

Before leaving and turning off the light, I looked around at the many pictures Arthur had covered his wall with. Most of them were random places in the city, street corners, crowds of people, all of them bathed in bright sunlight. It might be incorrect, but you could assume the photos were taken by Arthur and his many cameras. It would make him an anomaly in this community that shunned daylight and the world above them.

For weeks to come, I would wonder about Arthur and the life he lived. The suicidal cases often had me asking myself what had caused them to lose all hope. I could almost understand why someone living here would feel despairing and depressed. It seemed like an awful place to live. The others seemed content and well- adjusted in some strange way. But in Arthur’s case, I thought that maybe he had come all the way to NYC for the vibrance and culture illustrated in his photos and yet, he found himself living in the darkness with people who knew nothing about him, not even his name.

(end of part one)

A whole community had been created in a dark, abandoned section of train tunnel where they could live away from the world they either disliked or feared. They had created their own living quarters and their own little society, all while quietly living underneath the regular one. The two worlds were oblivious to each other.

My partner and I had gotten a tour of this alternate world after pronouncing a man from this underground community. With us was a man who worked for the train system that used these tunnels.

Mike, our guide to this underground city, told us that they occasionally made sojourns “upstairs”, as he called it, to get supplies. They searched for cans and cashed in their food stamps and then hurried back down. When enough cans were collected one person would get the deposits. They tried to complete these tasks necessary for survival in as few trips and as little time as possible. They no longer felt any connection to anything they found “up there” and took comfort in the darkness of the world below. He admitted there were conflicts that took place and personalities that clashed but for the most part, they felt that the ‘real’ world was too dangerous and required too many compromises and sacrifice. Down here, he said, they lived simply and helped one another. “Wasn’t it dangerous down here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “It was.” His sudden seriousness implied that it was worse.

As we toured their little complex of living quarters in search of information about our patient, who had killed himself, we noticed that most of the rooms were unoccupied at the moment and there were at least 30-40 separate ‘apartments’. Where was everyone?

“They all scattered when Eddie offed himself,” said Mike, speaking of our patient, who we had established was named Arthur Lundgren. “They knew a lot of people would be around. All of us down here tend to be anti-social. They’re probably further down the tunnel with the others.”

Who were the others? There were more?

Yes, apparently. There were several sets of “mole people”, a term Mike and his friends used to describe themselves. Some of them were transient and some of them didn’t like the rules at this encampment so they went about setting up separate groups. The alternative groups spent more time upstairs because they did their errands independently. Mike said there was no animosity between them but his face indicated he didn’t approve of them.

I was fascinated by all of it. They left regular society because they were ‘anti-social’ only to set up similar societies underground. I had no idea there were so many people who had turned their backs on the way of living most of us had been taught was the only way. They seemed to make it work for them. To me it was an incredibly undesirable life, surrounded by darkness, dirt and soot, rats running around, isolation, and apparently, danger. Mike admitted there were physical altercations and for women it was particularly dangerous. It didn’t say much for our world that so many people found this to be a viable alternative.

As we started to walk back to the train where our ambulance was parked, one of the less senior members of our representative tour group went over to Mike and whispered something to him. It led to a serious back and forth that I strained to hear, unsuccessfully. After a few minutes Mike just nodded and without saying anything, continued to lead us back out of that section of tunnel. The section we were in was long and dark and led to the small area where the train incident had taken place. That section was open to the sky and sun streamed in. You could look up and see buildings and faintly listen to the sounds of the big city the mole people shunned. But a few more yards further another, smaller, section of dark tunnel began and went on for about two or three miles.

When we reached the end of the dark section we were about to say good-bye when Mike stopped us and hesitatingly suggested we check out something in that other section of tunnel.

“There’s probably another body in the other tunnel that you might want to investigate for your records,” he said. “We know of a guy who lived there but we ain’t seen him in a while. We have a rumor that he’s still in his hole.”

What did that even mean?

“Are you saying there’s another DOA?” asked my partner. Mike lowered his head and nodded.

The active train route was set up on tracks on the east side of the tunnel area. The little city Mike had introduced us to was far west in the same structure. Several inactive tracks stood between the shanty town and the train that had stuck our patient. All of the people who lived down here were set up there, according to our guide. But now Mike pointed towards the east side, where the trains passed by semi-regularly. He said if we went down the tunnel we would find a “crypt” built into the wall and that it would probably be a good idea to check that out. He said he wasn’t going to take us there, we would have to find it ourselves. “But it’s there,” he said assuredly. “And, oh yeah, my name isn’t really Mike. Thought you should know.”

My partner updated the dispatcher, telling him that we were investigating another potential patient. We found a police officer and told him about the possibility of another body. He gave us a strange look but agreed to come with us. The man from the train company said he would “sit this one out”.

The three of us made our way down the tunnel. This side of the area seemed cleaner, almost. There was no debris and no mud, just gravel on the floor. It also seemed to get more light, not much more, but it was definitely better than the perpetual darkness of the other side.

The walls seemed to just be solid grey cement with nothing unusual noted. After walking what seemed like miles, we came across a square hole that had been built into the wall. It was high up, about 20 feet, so the passing windows of a moving train wouldn’t be able to see into it. There was a small ladder built into the wall as well, and my partner was eager to climb it. I went up after him and the cop followed me. Our flashlights lit up the small space and what we saw was both shocking and curiously interesting.

The space was small, about 15 feet by 15 feet by 10 feet. There was a small cot, a little table and a chair. In the chair, sat a man who had been dead for quite some time.

I have seen many dead bodies in various states of decay thanks to this line of work. I had brought many bodies to the morgue and witnessed even more states of decomposition there. I’ve seen skeletons, mangled bodies of trauma, the bloated slowly decomposing bodies, whose distinctive smell could make one retch and everything in between. But I have never witnessed someone partially decayed and in the process of petrification. I’ll admit, it was a little horrifying, especially because of the way the skin had decomposed around his mouth, which made his face to appear to be smiling, laughing almost. Yet I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. All of us just quietly stared, mesmerized by this unusual man before us.

He was fully dressed and looked very much like the zombies you see in the movies. Sitting upright at the table as if he had just eaten a meal he seemed almost posed, and fake. There were areas of his body where all that was left was bone but in many other places, including his face, skin and some muscle remained and where it remained it had become hardened. His eyes and nose were long gone. You could tell he had some gray facial hair and a missing front tooth. His socks, if he had worn any, had disintegrated, and his skeletal feet rested in his shoes. His hands were mostly bones but some grey-brown scaly skin also remained there, along with some long nails. He wore a blue jacket and a brown button down shirt with brown pants and he had on a vest with a pocket that looked as if there should have been the long chain of a pocket watch looped below it. He also had a blue train conductor type of hat on his head. He seemed very small but it was difficult to tell in his sitting position.

“There’s something you don’t see every day!” my partner said in awe.

The police officer had the look of regret that he had come with us. “I don’t even know where to start with all this,” he said. He rubbed his forehead as if he felt a headache coming on.

The man seemed to have scored some prime tunnel real estate. A penthouse, almost. The little room seemed very neat and tidy although there weren’t too many articles to displace. The cot was made up with a decorative pillow and didn’t look like it had been slept in. There was a plate on the little table but anything that might have been on it would have been eaten by the many rodents in the tunnel. How had he managed to get the table and cot up here? There was an initial intention to search for some ID but everything seemed to be delicate and the officer suggested that we not disturb the surroundings. A bigger investigation of the man’s living space would be carried out later, no doubt. I guess I was doing my “unknown” ambulance call report after all.

The isolation here must have been maddening. His fellow tunnel-dwellers lived far away. Perhaps he had joined them sometimes? I hoped so. It seemed like an incredibly lonely existence. But on the other hand, maybe he preferred it that way. It was hard to imagine that skeletal smiling face hadn’t wanted at least some, minimal social interaction.

We heard some noise and shined our flashlights down below to find two of the three men we had met when we first ventured into the other side of the tunnel. The two taller men had come to make sure we found “the crypt”. They seemed happy that we had.

When we came down the ladder the police officer asked them how long it had been since they had seen the man. They shrugged. “We don’t know what day it is.” There it was again, a blissful dismissal of something that seems so integral to the rest of us. They were never woken by the shriek of an alarm clock and were never late to any events. But there also were no events to speak of, or holidays and seasons.

They told us that they knew nothing about the man, except that they saw him come and go sometimes. They rarely went to this area of the tunnel but sometimes the man went past theirs. It seemed cryptkeeper led an incredibly solitary existence. I wondered if he really wanted it or if it was forced on him in some way, maybe by his own fears. I was curious if the two young men that were here were happy with this place or if they had just gotten used to it. “How did you know about this guy, that he was here?” I asked.

They said their neighbor kept very consistent habits, almost like a schedule, which was curious for people who don’t keep track of time, I thought. When they didn’t see him for a while they went over to look for him. One of their friends had climbed the ladder and saw that he was dead.

“So you didn’t report it to anyone?” The officer asked.

Once again they shrugged. “You mean other than to each other? How would we do that?” the tallest one asked. And then he said something both true and heartbreaking. “And why? No one was looking for him. No one even knew he was alive. Why would anyone need to know he was dead?”

The man had died as he had lived, anonymously, and perhaps that was all he had wanted.