When One Man Dies. Dave White
back into a man I used to drink with for hours on end.
He was bleeding from the nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing. I could feel his ribs crunch with every compress of my hands on his chest.
I couldn’t yet hear the ambulances and Robert Wood Johnson Hospital was right down the street.
I yelled, “Someone call nine-one-one!”
But I knew it was too late, and Gerry was gone. Dead bodies look different from live ones. I should know.
***
The Olde Towne Tavern was pretty crowded for a late Monday afternoon. Standing in the back, under a dimming Budweiser neon light, two college kids played pool. To my left, leaning against the stained wooden wall, two guys discussed baseball and the greatest American rock and roll band at the same time. It was impressive. A young couple sat at a dirty table finishing their lunch. Gerry sat next to me, and bought me a Heineken. He had his cup of coffee, and the breath to go with it.
We were celebrating.
“Accepted, huh? Gonna be a freshman at twenty-seven years old?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Whatever. It’s still old to go to college. But I’m proud of ya. Can’t keep this private eye stuff up all your life.”
“Hey, I have to pay tuition somehow.” Not that I was getting many cases lately. When your face is plastered all over the news and most of it isn’t good, the clients aren’t exactly knocking down your door.
I decided to come to the tavern for lunch today after getting my mail. I pulled out one of those big envelopes that high school seniors pray for. Opening it up, I found a letter that began, “Dear Mr. Donne, We are pleased to announce your acceptance to Rutgers University . . .” Best news I’d had in two months.
I drank my beer and Gerry blathered. Eventually, my burger would show, I could eat and get out of here. Gerry’s a nice guy, but grating when he starts to get a rant on.
“Never went to college myself. Had a war to fight. Fucking Korea.”
“I remember, Gerry.” Gerry talked about two things. Korea and his former life as an actor.
“So, tell me about this college thing. What are you going to do? When are you going to start?”
I finished my beer, still waiting for Artie to bring me my burger. “Probably start next fall. In September, once I get all of the tests out of the way.”
Gerry shook his head.
“You have to take an entrance exam. See what classes you can take,” I said.
“Then what? You take your classes? Get a B.S. Ha! Get a B.S. in BS.” He slapped himself on the leg, let out a short chuckle.
I gave him a smile. “Probably be an English major.”
“How’s that going to help you? What can you do with an English degree?”
“We’ll see.”
He plunked ten bucks on the bar as Artie finally brought my burger.
“Well, Jackson,” Gerry said, “I best be going. Gotta get home.”
I heard the door swing open behind me and he was gone. I poured some ketchup on my burger as Artie flipped a switch behind the bar. The Stones popped on over the speakers, “Beast of Burden.”
“That guy doesn’t shut up. Been coming here since I bought the place,” Artie said with a grin. “I love that guy.” I took a bite of my burger.
In New Jersey, especially a busy town like New Brunswick, there is a lot of traffic. Brakes squeal all the time. So I chewed and swallowed, listening to the Stones, until I heard the crunch. Like metal hitting something hard. Artie and I made eye contact just before the screaming started.
I dropped the burger, bolted out the door.
It was a warm day for mid-April, most people walking around in T-shirts and jeans. The sun heated my skin and stabbed into my eyes as I made the adjustment from the darkness of the bar to the bright afternoon. People stood on the sidewalk, staring. Some young coed screamed. No one was moving.
In the middle of the road Gerry lay in a prone position. Blood streaked down his face. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
Traffic had stopped in Gerry’s direction, one car about twenty feet from him. It didn’t have a dent in it.
“I can’t believe the guy just drove off,” someone was saying.
I raced into the street, I knelt next to Gerry, my knees digging into the asphalt.
“Someone call nine-one-one!” I yelled.
It had been too long since I’d trained in CPR. Four years since I was a cop, too long since I’d had to do anything remotely like this. I’d been surrounded by too much death over the past few months, and not enough ways to save life. I hoped muscle memory would kick in.
Pressing my fingers to Gerry’s neck, I tried for a pulse. I didn’t feel anything. Then I turned my head, put my ear to his nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing. Gerry was in trouble.
I opened his mouth, shut his nose, and breathed twice into his mouth. His blood pasted my face, and something told me I was doing the procedure wrong. I didn’t care. His chest went up and then let the air out. No other reaction.
Down Easton Ave., horns were honking. The sun beat on my neck, but it wasn’t the reason I was sweating.
I put both my hands on his chest and pumped five times. I didn’t know if the number was right. I didn’t know if anything was right. I was going on instinct.
I exhaled once more into his mouth.
I finally heard the sirens, the sound of ambulances, police, and fire. Someone must have called 911. When you call, they send everybody.
I pounded on Gerry’s chest until I felt someone wrap a hand around my arm and tug at me. I whirled and saw Artie staring at me.
“Let it be, man,” he said.
I tried to turn back to Gerry. Artie pulled harder. “Let it be.”
I let him tug my arm, and I finally got to my feet. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to help Gerry anymore.
An ambulance swung around toward us off Somerset. Its siren was louder than the screeching tires.
Gerry’s chest didn’t rise or fall.
After about ten minutes, Artie couldn’t take it anymore. He turned and went back inside the bar, mumbling something about having customers to serve. Those customers were all standing outside with me, pint glasses in hand, watching the cops and EMS work. Not much talking going on. In fact, the only sounds were the whispering of the cops asking witnesses questions and a few horns honking down the street.
I stood and watched the EMS guys. They were doing what I had been doing, but nothing was working. One of them, a guy with a goatee and shaved head, was just watching. The other, a woman with a short bowl-cut hairdo and no makeup, was pumping Gerry’s chest. They were both shaking their heads. Finally, the bald guy and the driver got the stretcher, as the woman kept pumping. Two more pumps, and she stopped, wiping her brow. Making eye contact with her partner, she backed away and they lifted Gerry onto the stretcher. Checked his pulse one more time. Wheeled him into the ambulance, which pulled away without sirens. Gerry’s blood stained the street, a crusty dark red mark. The odor of asphalt and car exhaust permeated the air.
EMS workers can’t pronounce someone dead on the spot. They have to do everything they can to keep the patient alive. Even if the person is dead they have to put on the act. From what I could see, these guys didn’t try too hard.
Down