At 8:30 am last Wednesday, despite the temperature on my cell phone registering a frigid 9 degrees, which, it also informed me, would feel like minus 13, intrepid me was heading to the East Side on a very important mission, I needed a haircut.
Rather than standing outside in the freezing cold waiting for the bus, I decided to take the subway. This option involved a longer walk and two different trains to get to my destination, but it was definitely the warmer option. First, I caught the 1 train, and then transferred to the D train at Columbus Circle. The 1 train was no problem, and within 6 minutes I was on the platform waiting for the D, which arrived a few minutes later. As I was stepping into the car, I almost tripped over a man lying across the doorway. His belongings, strewn around him, made my access even more hazardous. It was too late for me to switch cars, so I cautiously maneuvered my way around him and found a seat. Knowing he was alive (thankfully) because he periodically moved and moaned, I tried to figure out what to do. I looked around to see if anyone seemed as concerned as I was. Nope, not one of them even looked up from their phones. I rode the four stops to my destination, watching as people moved on and off the car, maneuvering around the human obstacle and his belongings with barely a glance or a pause. I, however, was forming a plan. After carefully stepping around him to exit the train at Rockefeller Center, I snapped a photo of the number posted on the outside rear of the car, and, remembering there is a subway helpline, I dialed 311 as I walked up the steps to the exit. Instead of getting a human, however, I ended up in a voicemail loop. Frustrated and knowing time was crucial, I hung up and called 911. The following, as close as I can remember, is a transcript of that call.
Operator: “911, what is your emergency?”
Me “I just got off the downtown D train at Rockefeller Center & 48th St, and there was a man passed out just inside the door of subway car #2729”.
Operator: “Was he inside or outside?”
Me, “inside” were you listening?
Operator: “Was he breathing?”
Me: “Yes, he was moving.”
Operator: “Where are you?”
I repeated that I just exited the train and was now on 48th & 6th, just outside the Rockefeller Center exit.
Me: “If you call for help right now, they can reach the train & exact car at the next subway stop.”
Operator: “Could you spell Rockefeller?”
Me: “R-o-c-k….wait a minute, suddenly thinking I must have gotten the wrong city’s emergency operator, I asked, is this NYC 911?”
Operator “Yes”
Incredulous, I started to say, “You are an emergency helpline operator located in NYC, and you are asking me to spell one of its most iconic landmarks?! ” Instead, I said, “Sir, do you understand that my location is of no importance, the location of the downtown D train that just left the station is?”
Operator: “I understand, but could you please spell Rockefeller?”
Me, (standing outside in minus 13 degree weather trying unsuccessfully not to shout), “ R-o-c-k-e-f-e-l-l-e-r. Silence…. then, I’m sorry to report, I lost it. “PLEASE, LET ME TALK TO YOUR SUPERVISOR “ (or at least someone who can spell, said my thought bubble).
Operator: “OK, I’ll transfer you to EMS”
Me: “WAIT”, I shouted, “don’t transfer me to EMS, time is crucial here. Just report this to whoever you report to so they can get to the train at the next stop, attend to the man, and so no one gets hurt tripping over him. “
By this time, I had walked the 5 blocks to my hair salon and was standing outside freezing, and getting more frazzled by the second.
I was just about to give up when I heard, “This is EMS, what is your emergency?” So instead of pressing the red hang-up button, I pressed my inner calm-down button and went through the whole story again, carefully explaining that I am NOT on the train anymore, I am NOT the man who is lying on the floor inside the subway car #2729, and that by now who knows where the D train is! “I got off 5-7 minutes ago at Rockefeller Center, R-O-C-K”…” Ma’am,” he interrupts, with a smile in his voice, “I know how to spell Rockefeller Center!” He then asks a few very intelligent questions (although compared to the 911 operator, any question would have been intelligent). He tells me he totally understands the situation, quickly explaining he used to be on street duty with the NYPD and this isn’t his first rodeo (his exact words). He will get someone to find the D train and the car with the man who is obviously in need of help. He thanked me profusely for not only persevering through all the crazy red tape but also for thinking to get the car number (yay me!). Great, I am a good citizen and can now concentrate on my hair.
Not so fast, remember this is me, Florence, and this is NYC. Just as I was sitting down at the shampoo bowl, possibly 10 minutes later, my phone rang. The call was from a NY number I didn’t recognize, but for some strange reason, which I regret now, I decided to answer. It was another 911 operator calling to ask me where I was and what kind of help I needed!
“NO”, I stated emphatically, trying to use my inside voice, and once again explained I was not the one in need of help, and had no time to repeat the story for the third time (or was it the fourth?) I had already reported an incident that happened on the train at least 15-20 minutes ago. “I’ve spoken to EMS, and they are taking care of it. Thanks for the follow-up. Goodbye.” This time, I did press the red hang-up button.
Ending that call, however, was not to be the end of the story. Forty-five minutes later, freshly coiffed, as I walked out of the salon into the freezing cold, my cell phone rang, and once again the caller ID showed it was from yet another unknown NY number. Why, you may ask, did I answer? I have no idea, but in retrospect, given the reason for the call, it was probably a good thing, otherwise, they might never have stopped calling me.
Me: “Hello”
Without a hello or any preamble, a harsh voice demanded, “Do you need a defibrillator?”
Sure I had misheard, I replied “Pardon?”
Louder this time, and enunciating each word, the voice shouted, “D O Y O U N E E D A
D E F I B R I L L A T O R?
I don’t want to overthink this, but I still find the whole event deeply unsettling & not a little annoying. Who did this last person think they were calling, EMS, or even possibly the patient, who, if they actually did need a defibrillator, would most likely have been dead by then!
Trying not to be a hater, I can think of two positives from that last call
1) Thankfully, I did not need a defibrillator
2) They didn’t ask me to spell Rockefeller!
Present, Almost Perfect 