Before the A train doors had closed, at a little after 9 am Tuesday, April 1, a slew of people had jammed themselves into each and every open space in the cars. Men and women were seated, stood and hung on to overhead or vertical poles, or leaned against closed doors; going to work, for appointments or whatever, were dressed either in business attire or more casually; and, some staring, their eyes glazed over looking into a distance only they could see, lost in their own thoughts planning for the day, or recalling the night just passed; some reading newspapers, catching up on the latest events and happenings in the city, some studying texts which they knew they should have done before, some reading magazines, catalogs, or books, or some just looking at others, either cruising, admiring or mentally criticizing; and some others lost in the music pumping into their ears through ipods and earphones, all on the stretch between the 125th Street station in Harlem and 59th Street or Columbus Circle.

In the press of people was one man, who came aboard the last car of this 10-car train. He was Black, stood between six-feet and six-feet two-inches tall, with an estimated weight of close to 250-pounds. He was dressed in a dark suit and a blue shirt, without a tie. He carried in his hand a black briefcase. This man, who so far is nameless, is forced to assume a John Doe name, stood against the panel of doors opposite the platform. He too, blended into his surroundings and assumed the pose of indifference: just simply minding his own business.

As the train pulled away on the express track from the 125th Street Station in Harlem its wheels clacking and slapping the rails, gaining momentum, the noise reverberating in the car, everyone in this last car settled down to the seven to 10-minute drive, a long straight stretch on the A train, to 59th Street/Columbus Circle.

But, somewhere along the ride, perhaps when the train had passed the 116th Street Station, or as one man later said, it was about the 86th Street Station, that John Doe suddenly and silently crumpled and slid to the floor.

For a split moment, the only sound was the clacking and slapping of the train’s wheels on the rails. Then a flurry of activity erupted. Some people moved away, not wanting to be touched or afraid of and not knowing what was happening; others curious, gravitating to see what had happened; and others trying to get close not only to see what was happening, but what help they could offer.
Someone shouted out asking, “Can anyone do CPR?”

A few others, who had by this time crowded round John Doe were looking, others were feeling his wrists for a pulse, or slapping his face to revive him, thinking he might just simply have fainted. Two other passengers jostled their way to him and felt and listened for a heart beat. In the mean time, a young Hispanic woman came forward. She said she knew how to perform CPR and knelt beside him. She began to perform chest compressions, intending to stimulate his heart, and after a brief hesitation, looking at his open mouth, she placed her lips over his and began, alternating between chest compressions, to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Gravitating to the scene, I suggested that those closest to him undo his belt and the waist of his pants to allow for unrestricted blood flow. John Doe lay on the floor of the train, his head against the door, the normal white of his eyes blood shot and rolled back in their sockets and his mouth open.

After a few minutes’ ministrations of chest compresses and mouth-to-mouth forced breathing, there was a faint hint that he seemed to be struggling to breathe. His tongue lolled pink and directionless, threatening to block his throat and further depriving him of desperately needed air.

I leaned over him and asked him if he could hear me and to blink his eyes if he could. He blinked. I started speaking to him telling him not to worry and that there are people who are here to help him. His mouth was open and it seemed as if he was trying to speak.

During all this, I looked around the confines of the car and saw that while some people were craning their necks to see what was happening, others were jostling for a better view, there were others who remained in their seats, impassively listening to their headsets or reading, oblivious to their surroundings.

One of those attending him asked if someone could go forward, through the train cars, to notify the conductor. I shouted out, “Could someone go through and tell the conductor?” After a few minutes, another person attending John Doe asked if someone had gone to notify the conductor. I shouted out again, my voice rising over the din of the train, and my enquiry was met with a chorus reply from some passengers that someone had gone through to the conductor.

In the meantime, a tall young white man rushed and knelt at John Doe’s side and to relieve the Hispanic woman, took over administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation; a white woman, also came forward and she took over and continued with the chest compressions. As they continued their efforts, John Doe’s head lolled to one side.

When the train rolled into the 59th Street Station the doors opened. Many passengers remained inside and those on the platform began to look in to see what had happened. The conductor came into the train speaking into his radio he said to whomever on the other end of his radio that the person in distress was a Black man and promptly declared that the train was out of service.

The man and woman, still continued their ministrations, hoping for some response. A few more minutes elapsed before two police officers arrived. More time passed and more police officers arrived, herding people off the train onto the platform. Then two emergency medical technicians arrived and one of them began using a clear plastic mouth mask to resume mouth-to-mouth. When that wasn’t proving successful, the technician asked a policeman to go for and bring the long board or stretcher. He unzipped his bag and pulled out a defibrillator, stuck the electrodes to John Doe’s chest and sides and waited for it to become charged.

I stood there on the platform watching all that was being done to save a man who clearly had reached beyond saving. I was transfixed by what I had witnessed and with an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. A man had died on the A train, and there was nothing I could do to save him. Another A train pulled into the station on the local track and realizing I had to go to work, I embarked on it. As the train pulled away from the station, I strained my eyes to see what I could of John Doe, and as it gathered speed, the closed A train with John Doe lying on the floor on the express track faded, I wondered who would tell his family, his colleagues at his place of work are probably expecting him, he may have had an appointment later that day that he wouldn't attend, but who told them. As the train gathered speed I tried to rationalize my actions: what more could I do for him? There was nothing more I could do for him. I wasn't an expert or a professional. He had medical professionals and the police there with him.