The Union Square station smelled like it always did of fresh urine and rat. I followed the stench past an old dude playing Amazing Grace on his bagpipes and down the staircase to the uptown 4, 5, and 6 train. There was an express parked on the track, but before I could reach the platform, the doors closed with that familiar “bing-bong” sound that made me give out a full-on pissed off groan.

I pushed through several hundred of New York City’s most disgruntled strap-hangers with my large, unruly backpack crashing into everyone attempting to exit. I caught an onslaught of dirty looks, bad attitudes, and a kick to the shins for all the effort I took to stop it from hitting them. People didn’t understand that my school filled up my bag, not me.

I broke through the crowd and planted myself at the end of the platform. Faces blurred through the windows as the train sped off.

When the last car passed, the surrounding air filled the vacuum the train left behind. It lifted my arms slightly toward the tracks and for a second, as the wind rushed past my ears, the entire station fell silent. 

The junkie dug through a tall black garbage can. He wore a grimy jean jacket over a white t-shirt. Light brown hair covered his face and hid his features. Even hunched over, I could tell he towered me by a head. He had a pole-thin frame, straight up and down without an ounce of muscle or fat.

He nodded off and his head lowered into the can. He woke up and nodded again. He repeated this dance over and over. That guy had probably spent his whole life stoned off his ass. I mean, I was a loser since I barely made it to the eleventh grade, but at least I didn’t search the trash for food.

An old lady came down the stairs. She didn’t move well and gripped the railing tight while taking it one step at a time. She waited for the train at the bottom of the steps. She planted herself right by the garbage can. She couldn’t go much farther. She seemed like a nice grandmotherly type with her purse hanging from an arm too frail to fight back if the junkie tried to take it. She purposefully turned away from him.

I thought about standing next to her to protect her, but I chickened out the moment the thought of being stabbed with a diseased needle popped into my head. It didn’t feel like the manliest thing, but I decided to go, though it meant leaving the old lady defenseless. Before I could move, the junkie lifted up his head, turned, and walked away. With him gone, I stood next to the old lady, just in case.

Partially for safety and partially out of fascination, I kept my eyes on him. I wasn’t the only one. Two dudes stood behind me talking about him.

“Look,” said one of the guys, “ it’s some of the New York City wildlife.”

“What?” asked his friend. “This city only has concrete. There’s no wildlife here.”

“Sure there is. It’s got pigeons, rats, roaches, alligators, and junkies.”

They both laughed. I wanted to laugh, but I thought better of it. The guy had failed at life, but he was still a person.

The junkie bobbed and weaved his way toward the far end of the platform taking a quick nap every few shuffles where he would do his heroin dance toward the floor. I hoped for him to make it all the way down, but he kept popping back up before hitting the ground. He fought sleep hard, although I couldn’t imagine where he tried to go to in that condition.

He bobbed his way over to the edge of the platform and stopped. His feet crossed over the yellow safety line. I would’ve said something. I didn’t want him to slip and be crushed on the tracks. But every time he nodded forward, a moment later he popped back up. So I figured he knew what he was doing. Even when I heard the loud screeches of the train coming, I didn’t feel like I should say anything.

My foot crossed the yellow line as well, but I stepped back when the lights of the Number 4 train appeared in the tunnel. The junkie didn’t move his feet. He stayed at the edge. I inhaled deeply as he nodded forward right before the train reached him and I exhaled in relief as he moved backwards in time for the first car to safely pass him. He didn’t fall onto the tracks.

I don’t remember if it was a smack sound or a thud, but there was definitely a sound, because the next time the junkie nodded forward, his head smashed into the third car.

“Holy shit!” I yelled.

The man’s face whipped to the side and vacant eyes looked back at me. Adrenaline rushed with such power that I jumped from the force of it. But the adrenaline didn’t make me look away from the man or send me off in a safer direction. No, when I jumped, I jumped toward him.

I planned to run fast, to pick the man up, move the man to safety, but that didn’t happen. I didn’t make it half a step before his feet slipped in between the train and the platform. His right side slammed to the ground. His head bounced. His hands flew out behind him as the train dragged his body toward me.

“Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!” I started shouting as I searched for help. The old lady let out a scream. The two friends behind me ran away. I had no idea if I should follow them or what to do, so I stayed.

His body slipped further down the gap to his thighs. The train darted down the tracks. The man’s arms flailed above his head not grabbing for anything. His eyes were closed and mouth silent. His only movements came from the train scrapping him along the platform. I decided that when the junkie got closer to me, I would grab him under his armpits and lift him up.

So I waited.

I aimed for his arms, but I would’ve settled for anything, even his hair. But something else snagged his hair and his head got sucked under the train, his face squashed in the gap.

“Oh shit!” was the only thing I could say and I kept repeating it. I ran alongside the junkie until the train stopped. That car had a conductor with his window open. I ran up to him.

“Hey! Hey, man!” The conductor’s head stuck out the window, but not facing me. He had his earplugs in and couldn’t hear a thing. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and opened his right ear. “Hey, man, you just ran over someone!”

“What?”

“You ran over this guy, look!”

 I pointed back in between the first door and the second, from mid-thigh to mid-chest was all that was visible of him. His head, upper torso, arms, and legs had all been sucked inside the gap. “The guy’s dead, man!” I didn’t know that exactly, but he had to be. A chest jammed into a gap two inches wide couldn’t house a heart that still beat.

The conductor’s eyes widened, and he ducked his head back inside, I guessed to use the radio. I didn’t know if telling him would be enough, so I ran upstairs.

I went back through the turnstile and stopped in front of the token booth where a clerk spoke to a buddy of his. I banged on the glass.

“Hey, somebody just got run over!”

The guy either didn’t hear me or didn’t care.

“Are you listening?” I banged again. “I said someone got run over!”

He wore the MTA uniform dark blue sweater and tie and was supposed to be a professional, but the big diamond earring in his left ear told me something different.

“Which train?” he said then moved back from the microphone.

“The 4 train. The 4 train hit a guy.”

“Uptown or downtown?” he asked calm and relaxed as if he dealt with someone getting run over every day.

“The uptown.”

“Okay.”

I don’t know if he called 911 because I turned away. My pulse pounded in my head, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Someone left the station through the emergency exit. I still had to get home, so I ignored the turnstile and slipped through the open gate. I looked back at the clerk expecting him to say, “Pay your fare!” but he didn’t. He continued on with his conversation.

I walked down the steps pissed off and on wobbly legs. I reached the platform where the 4 train stood with its doors open and passengers emptying out of the cars. An announcement said it was out of service.

Most people didn’t notice the dead man, but a few did, mainly the ones who ran away after the hit. They came back like I did.

I squatted down to watch and hoped that somehow he had survived. Two cops were there, but my view was blocked. The 6 train rolled in behind me. I didn’t pay attention to it. I felt I needed to stay to give a statement or something.

A guy came down the stairs. He wore a badge around his neck that hung by a chain, but he didn’t have a uniform on. He wore regular clothes, a thick flannel shirt, Yankees cap, and had a mustache. He must have been undercover because the other cops ignored him when he made his announcement.

“Okay everyone, listen up!” he shouted to the people on the platform and the others getting off the local, “I need you all to either head upstairs or hop on this Number 6 train. I need this area clear so we can make room for Emergency Medical Services.”

He said it again. People hesitated then eventually did what the undercover guy said, but not me.

“Hey, son,” he said, “Son, do you need medical attention?”

 I shook my head without looking at him, hoping he wouldn’t tell me to leave. He came over and bent down, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Me? I’m Kevin.”

“Okay, Kevin. I need you to get on this train before it leaves, so I can make room.” He had kind eyes.

“But I can help.”

“Go ahead,” he said, “you don’t need to see this.” He straightened me up and waved at the conductor to hold the door.

Me and another guy boarded the local. The other guy was short and in his forties with a thick black beard. Hard looking, he wore an Army hat and jacket with blue jeans.

“Here, you dropped this,” said the Army guy. He had my backpack in his hands. I didn’t remember taking it off.

“Thanks,” I said and grabbed it from him as the doors closed behind us. I looked out the window. The platform had cleared except for the cops. They were shouting stuff at the junkie, but he didn’t respond.

“There’s no blood.” My words came out weak.

“What?” said the Army guy.

Not a single drop.

“There’s...” I let it go. It was a stupid thought. “I tried to help him.”

“At least you did something,” he said. “All those people out there, they didn’t do jack. They saw a person get run over and they ran.”

“It wasn’t enough,” I said.

He seemed like the kind of guy who liked to have answers, but he was failing at comforting me and knew it. It made him look hurt, or maybe he was sad for me. Without saying anything, he pursed his lips and moved further into the car, stopping at the next door.

The train moved, and I stared at the body until I lost sight of him. I turned and faced the other passengers. Why wasn’t there any blood?

I stood in the car close to the last. There shouldn’t have been such a crowd. And they were all smiling. They didn’t witness a person get run over so they were smiling. I mean, they were giggling and laughing and having conversations. They were reading and listening to their headphones. They were relaxed and having too normal of a day. I didn’t want to ride with them for the next nine stops. I hated them too much.

The train entered the tunnel and I turned back around. Out the window, darkness sped by and blackened the glass. I watched the Army guy’s reflection. Both of his arms were stretched out, grabbing the overhead bars on each side of him. His head was down and his body swayed in rhythm with the train.

I wanted to talk to him. He didn’t call the guy a junkie. He called him a person. I hoped he’d catch me staring at him, but he never raised his eyes.