“The 10:24 train leaves in five minutes,” said Brian.
“Omigod! We barely
have time to make it. Where’s Dave?”
“Where’s Dave?” is so often my refrain that friends smile
automatically in hearing it, shaking heads in bemusement before launching into
their own often-used lines. “Not sure," Brian replied. "A
minute ago he was looking for his keys…” or his phone, or his computer. This time, it was his camera. He’d been looking for his camera last time I saw him too, his face grim.
We were attending a “Brews, Boots, and Bling” benefit for
Eagle Hill at a restaurant near the depot in Portchester. Friends in cowboy hats, boots, and bandanas
had scurried about searching for the camera for the past half hour. Since my
view of mankind lately tends too quickly toward the dark, I assumed it was
stolen, but Dave hunted on... and found it, confirming, once again, his faith
in mankind over my doubt.
Still, he was nowhere to be seen and the minutes were
passing. Schedule-ruled as I am, I
headed for the door, husband or not, hoping he would glance at his watch and
turn up in time. “We’d better hurry,”
said Bullets as we pushed through the guests milling around the bar.
I’ve known Bullets since the day she was born, even earlier
if you count the times I laid a hand on her Mom’s swollen belly hoping to feel
a kick. Nicknames cling to toddlers and
grandparents, and little Tracy, with her big blue eyes, long blonde hair, and
flowing floral sundresses, looked no more like a Tracer-Bullet than the beautiful
woman with long, shining blond hair striding beside me, yet she continues to
carry the title "Bullets" with grace.
For the trip down, Brian and his wife Colleen had met us at the
Fairfield station. As the train stopped
at Norwalk, Cos Cob, and Greenwich, additional colleagues from the school
boarded the train to hoots of welcome and compliments on whatever western
attire they had donned. I was pleased to
have an excuse to wear my theme-perfect fringed brown leather jacket purchased
for another Eagle Hill event years ago.
As Bullets and I bounded briskly in our cowboy boots
through the dark, down the sidewalk, under the overpass, and up the stairs to
the northbound platform for the return trip, I glanced over my shoulder hoping
to spot my errant Dave. Upon seeing Brian
and Colleen, but no Dave, I strode on, fueled by annoyance, as my marching would
prove pointless if he didn’t show up: our tickets were in his wallet.
The platform was well-lighted, casting the track in shadow. One girl stood alone, her brunette hair caught up in a ponytail, a red
windbreaker slung over her arm. She was
tapping at her phone and when our breathless crew arrived, she gestured toward
the track. No sign of the train, which
was good as there was no sign of Dave either.
The girl waved again, persistent, but not insistent, so, casually, we looked
toward the track again. “Down,” she
said, loudly, so we could hear her. “On the track. I’ve already texted 911.”
911?
And this time we saw him, a man in jeans and a gray hooded
sweatshirt, lying on his back on the track below us. Holy shit.
He was moving, so he was alive, but we could see the light of the
oncoming train in the distance.
Truth is, that was significant more because of timing than
the man’s safety. Metal gangways
stretched across the first track, where the man lay, to allow boarding when the
train pulled in on the second track over.
The man was not in danger, but the next train was due close to midnight, so we did not want to miss this one.
The girl in the ponytail said she’d seen the guy staggering
along the platform, apparently drunk, and she’d told him to be careful, to stay
away from the yellow line, but he paid no attention. Where were the police? What was taking so long? In fact, it had been only minutes.
Dave and several others appeared as the 10:24 pulled in, and
a cluster of people had gathered on the platform above the man on the
track. Suddenly I noticed Dave among
them, seated at the edge of the platform, his legs slung over the side,
preparing to jump down.
“Don’t do it, Honey!” I called. “That girl called 911. Someone who knows what to do will come
soon. You might injure him if you move
him.” Dave didn’t look at me; but he
didn’t jump. He leaned way over to talk
to the man.
The train doors slid open, spilling a shaft of light. A conductor burst from the opening, and
clanged across the metal bridge to see what was happening. Bullets, Brian, and Colleen hung over the
bridge railing, watching the scene on the tracks, and I slipped onto the train, straddling the gap,
keeping one foot on the bridge and one in the train. The 10:24 was not leaving without us if I could help it.
A portly bald guy with a striped polo shirt stretched over
his stomach hurried from the front of the train to join the group above the
fallen man. “Was he down before we pulled
in?” he asked anxiously. A chorus of us
affirmed that he was, and I realized with a start that this was the
engineer. No striped uniform, no visored
cap, no red bandana knotted around his neck, just a guy in a polo shirt,
worried sick that with a train, he might have hit a man.
“There’s a ladder onboard,” said the engineer. “I’ll get it,” and he hurried off on his
quest.
When I swung my gaze from the retreating engineer, I saw
Dave lying on his stomach, stretched full out, his head hanging over the edge
of the cement platform, listening. The fallen man in the sweatshirt raised his
hand… and Dave reached down to clasp it.
And so they remained until four police officers crowded onto the
platform and jumped down to the tracks. As the officers helped him to his feet,
the man released Dave’s hand and said, “Thank you.”
Bullets turned to me with a look of wonder. “So,” she said, “that makes it official. Dave is
the best human on the planet.”
