I saw a dead body on my birthday. It’s not unusual in my line of
work. But I wasn’t at work.
The body was in a subway car. The train was parked at the station,
all doors open. From afar, the body looked like a large crumpled black garbage
bag. There were two other fellow commuters who surrounded it. Maybe it was a passenger
who passed out. I went to see if I could help. The man was pale, eyes closed,
his glasses askew. It seemed he had slid off his seat. A black umbrella was on the
seat next to him. It appeared he had a heart attack. But that’s for the medical
examiner to determine.
I felt sorry for him. He died alone among strangers. Suddenly a
sterile hospital felt like a less cold place to die. What bothered me was that
I told this to at least two MTA employees walking by. Not one of them stopped
to look inside the car. “There’s a dead man on the train” must not seem
disturbing to hear out loud for them. Saying it out loud certainly felt
unnatural. Maybe a dead body on a train is not unusual in their line of work.
Is this an omen for the year to come? What a way to contemplate
one’s own mortality on one’s birthday. But as my wise mother said after I
shared this story: when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go.
