The Carolinian

At the rear of the Carolinian train, a small commotion was brewing. A man lay slouched against the train’s wall, ragged breaths sputtering out irregularly. He appeared to be trying to say something.

“Breast pocket.” he managed.

Could anyone even hear this man? By now, my interest was piqued. This was a drastic deviation from my normal rides on the Carolinian. All of my other trips had been exceedingly unremarkable. This, however, was something different. I could tell. I looked on with interest.

“Breast pocket,” the man repeated under his breath.

I saw a porter approaching from the other end of the train, and I threw up a little wave to get his attention. “I think something is wrong with this man over there,” I told him. “He appears to be having some sort of medical emergency.” 

The porter surveyed the cabin -- giving it a quick once-over with his eyes before responding. “I’ll look into it.” he said.

I watched as the porter (Seymour, according to his name badge) walked over to the man and leaned down. The two spoke in low voices. Seymour pulled out a pad and began scribbling before shoving the pad and crumpled paper back into his pocket. “Yes, I understand that there is something in your breast pocket that you feel I need to see.” Seymour said slowly and somewhat condescendingly. His tone was placating. “I see that you are having some difficulty, and we want to help you. But what will more than likely happen is that we will just have EMS meet you at the next stop and check you out.”

“NOOOOO!” the sick man wailed. 

The porter departed, sighing huffily. The sick man slumped further down into his seat — his labored breathing becoming increasingly more pronounced. He looked about wildly. “Breast pocket...” he called out to no one in particular as he gasped for air. “Call! The number is in my breast pocke--,” he stopped mid-sentence, slumping into unconsciousness.

I surveyed the train. Apparently, this man was travelling alone when sickness overtook him. All he wanted was for someone to call whomever’s number was in his breast pocket. Probably his doctor. That was reasonable enough, right?

I got up from my seat and crossed the aisle, easing down uncertainly beside the gentleman. 

“Sir…” I began uneasily. “Can I do anything for you?” 

No response. “Of course not. The man is passed out, for Pete’s sake,” I chided myself as I reached into his breast pocket tentatively. I fished around and pulled out a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it. Whom did this number belong to?

I tucked the number safely away in my pocket before resolving in earnest to seek medical attention for this man. This time, I shouted for help — pounding the call button on the ceiling of the train with the heel of my hand. 

Hearing my shouts, the porters roused themselves and began moving feverishly about the cabin -- speaking in hushed, excited voices. Satisfied that they would finally do something to assist the man, I determined to retrieve my cell and dial the number on the paper-- not sure whom I was calling, why, or what I would say should they answer.

“Yes,” a curt voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Umm...” I began, feeling both panicky and ridiculous. “Umm.. there is this man travelling on the Carolinian train. He is having a medical emergency and he had your number in his pocket. He was kind of insistent that someone call you.”

I waited. There was a short intake of breath on the other end before the line went dead.

I tried to call it back, but no one answered. I muttered under my breath.

Minutes later the train stopped at its next station. Emergency medical personnel rushed on board to attend to the man. I hung around uselessly, peering over their shoulders. The workers attempted CPR -- doing chest compressions on the man and breathing into his lungs. I wondered whom I had called from the man’s breast pocket. Had it been a wrong number?

EMS workers opted to try the cardiac defibrillator on the ailing man. They would need to unbutton his dress shirt and attach the sensors to his skin to make everything work. 

“Undo his shirt!” one of the workers commanded while they readied the defibrillator. Another EMS worker undid the buttons with efficient dexterity. With the sick man’s shirt unfastened, the workers huddled around him — staring down at his chest in confusion. 

“Why are you guys standing there like that?! Come on! What the hell?!” an onlooker from the train yelled. 

“What the hell IS it?!” one of the EMS workers murmured softly. “Do you think this is all some kind of prank?”

The workers continued to ogle one another in shocked silence.

I crept closer and peered down.

The sides of the sick man’s shirt gaped open to reveal a metallic panel. Wires protruded. 

“What does it mean?” I asked, horrified. “Is there a bomb strapped to this man? Is this some kind of fancy pacemaker? Is he a robot? What does this mean?”

The EMS workers looked as baffled as I felt.  

“All an elaborate prank, no doubt,” rang a male voice. “But I intend to get to the bottom of it and to rectify any harm done. No need to trouble yourselves any further,” the disembodied voice said before revealing itself to belong to a well dressed man I did not recognize from somewhere else on the train. “ I’ve made arrangements for transport...and for your recompense.” The man reached into his pocket and peeled several large bills out which he handed to various porters and EMS workers. Eventually everyone drifted away. Who was this man? I did not recall seeing him board. I puzzled over it. 

Soon, an announcement was made about departure. The man I did not recognize hoisted his charge (formerly known as the sick man) up to drag him out.  

Speaking into a cell phone as he lugged the rigid man from the seat, I heard him say, “The package is secured.” He terminated the call quickly, and continued dragging his charge.

In hindsight, I should have let it go. None of this was my concern. Yet, I didn’t. I did what no reasonable, prudent person under the circumstances would ever do. I changed my plans and followed the two of them out.