A Death On Broadway Market
I had just left the little supermarket and was walking up Broadway Market towards home. A little way ahead a small commotion was occuring. A large man, perhaps in his late-forties, was leaning forward, bracing himself against some or other street furniture. He was wet with perspiration and grey-faced. A harried-looking elderly woman with dyed black hair was rubbing his shoulder; she was staring up into his clenched face and saying something to him. A young girl of about thirteen stood with her arms by her side, looking on in bewilderment. The man began to shake his head. He made a small step backwards and then his legs buckled and he fell, heavily, onto his back on the pavement, his eyes half-closed. The elderly woman gave a short cry.
"Ronnie! Oh my gawd, Ronnie!"
"Dad!" yelled the young girl. Within a minute several people - obviously medically-trained - had run out of the various cafes along the strip and were kneeling beside the stricken man. One of his legs was stretched out flat, while the other was bent at the knee and resting up against the street furniture. A middle-aged woman had a medical case from which she produced a pair of scissors with which she deftly cut the man's Fred Perry shirt up the middle and across the arms so that his enormous belly was revealed. Some sort of adhesive white pads were then applied to his chest. A man received instruction from the woman doctor and he began to press rhythmically in the centre of the man's chest causing his big soft belly to wobble in time. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. The young girl began to cry. Several woman gathered round her, and her grandmother, and hugged them, offering what comfort they could under the circumstances. Somebody had called an ambulance, it could be heard approaching in the distance.
"Oh my gawd! No... No!" shouted the elderly woman, "Come on, Ronnie! Stay with us, luv! Stay with us!" The kneeling man kept up his ministrations - Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. A police car now arrived. One of the policemen jumped out and raced to the car boot to retrieve a case containing various essential medical equipment. He and his colleague huddled around the small group which was crouching low about the man. They asked questions of the woman doctor, who was now pressing her stethoscope against the wobbling grey flesh. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. She was shaking her head. A small crowd had gathered on both sides of the street. A young man now approached along the road on his bicycle. He stopped at the side of the man and said to the policemen, "I'm a doctor, do you need any assistance?" One of the policemen told him that it was all under control, and that an ambulance was on its way. The young doctor rode away - all in a day's work for him, after all. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
And now a young Korean woman was excitedly talking on her phone to a friend, "Come meet me here. A man on the floor. Police. Everyone!" Unbelievably, she then commenced to walk around the huddled drama and began to take photographs of the scene with her phone as if she was snapping her friends at a picnic. She must have managed to take half a dozen before several of us told her to stop, for god's sake. She started to argue, but saw that she was in for real trouble if she continued. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
Now the ambulance arrived. The team brought out oxygen and adrenaline and sundry other essentials. They busied themselves, talking to each other in brisk, matter-of-fact tones. The man's face was grey: some white froth was congealing about his mouth and stubbled cheek. One of their team approached the man's small family and asked them to go off to one of the cafes to wait, but both Granny and daughter insisted on staying. After a degree of effort an injection was eventually shot into the wax-pale arm. The young girl was now distraught and was sobbing on the shoulder of a stranger who was trying to convince her that Dad will be ok. Another passerby, a woman in her forties, now stood against a shop window and began to pray ostentatiously, her pudgy hands clasped at her chest, her lips moving to the futile words. A father and his little girl wandered by. The father explained to his daugter that the paramedics would fix the poor man.
"But what if the Power Medics can't help him?" she asked. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
A gnomic old woman approached wheeling a battered shopping trolley. She peered down at the man and shook her head. Then she wandered over to the man's family and looked at them quizzically.
"Are you the family?" she silently mouthed at the grandmother. Somebody confirmed this. Satisfied, the old woman took another look at the man on the ground, then she turned to me and said loudly, "'E ain't gunna live. Look at the size of 'im." She nodded in the direction of the woman doctor. "Thass my doctor. Well, she got 'ere fast. Pity she ain't so available on normal days!" Then she trundled her trolly over to speak to the doctor, who sent her away with a dismissive hand gesture. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
Four black teenagers skidded around the corner on their bikes. They took in the drama and began yelling to each other, laughing and generally pissing about before riding off, hooting, down the street.
A policeman began to clear the area, delineating a large pedestrian-free zone with blue-and-white hazard tape. I walked over to an adjacent cafe and bought a coffee. I took it to the outside table where I was joined by a girl in her early twenties. Her friend wandered by and she called excitedly to him, "Jack! Here I am!" After some small talk about the drama, not twenty feet from them, they began loudly chattering about his bike tour of Austria and how exhausting it was, and how his legs really hurt, now.
"Honestly, it nearly killed me!" They went on in this vein for ten minutes, oblivious to the awfulness. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
It had now been forty minutes since the man had collapsed. All this time a small rotation of volunteers had been rhythmically pressing his chest - they swapped over when they became too tired. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. But now this came to an end. One of the ambulance team called the man's mother and daughter over. Another removed the oxygen mask. Nothing more could be done. A white sheet was brought out of the ambulance and was carefully placed over the man. The man's daughter now sat on the pavement sobbing quietly. Her grandmother bent down at her son's head and cupped his ashen cheeks in her hands, upon which she wore some gold rings - the familiar symbols of fidelity and family.
"Ronnie. Oh, Ronnie, darlin'", she sobbed.
One of the waitresses of the cafe stepped out onto the street and saw my tears.
"Oh my god," she said, "Oh no! Has he gone?"
I walked home through the weak October sunlight, marvelling at the tenacity of the ambulance team, who had continued their efforts for so long. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
"Ronnie! Oh my gawd, Ronnie!"
"Dad!" yelled the young girl. Within a minute several people - obviously medically-trained - had run out of the various cafes along the strip and were kneeling beside the stricken man. One of his legs was stretched out flat, while the other was bent at the knee and resting up against the street furniture. A middle-aged woman had a medical case from which she produced a pair of scissors with which she deftly cut the man's Fred Perry shirt up the middle and across the arms so that his enormous belly was revealed. Some sort of adhesive white pads were then applied to his chest. A man received instruction from the woman doctor and he began to press rhythmically in the centre of the man's chest causing his big soft belly to wobble in time. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. The young girl began to cry. Several woman gathered round her, and her grandmother, and hugged them, offering what comfort they could under the circumstances. Somebody had called an ambulance, it could be heard approaching in the distance.
"Oh my gawd! No... No!" shouted the elderly woman, "Come on, Ronnie! Stay with us, luv! Stay with us!" The kneeling man kept up his ministrations - Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. A police car now arrived. One of the policemen jumped out and raced to the car boot to retrieve a case containing various essential medical equipment. He and his colleague huddled around the small group which was crouching low about the man. They asked questions of the woman doctor, who was now pressing her stethoscope against the wobbling grey flesh. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. She was shaking her head. A small crowd had gathered on both sides of the street. A young man now approached along the road on his bicycle. He stopped at the side of the man and said to the policemen, "I'm a doctor, do you need any assistance?" One of the policemen told him that it was all under control, and that an ambulance was on its way. The young doctor rode away - all in a day's work for him, after all. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
And now a young Korean woman was excitedly talking on her phone to a friend, "Come meet me here. A man on the floor. Police. Everyone!" Unbelievably, she then commenced to walk around the huddled drama and began to take photographs of the scene with her phone as if she was snapping her friends at a picnic. She must have managed to take half a dozen before several of us told her to stop, for god's sake. She started to argue, but saw that she was in for real trouble if she continued. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
Now the ambulance arrived. The team brought out oxygen and adrenaline and sundry other essentials. They busied themselves, talking to each other in brisk, matter-of-fact tones. The man's face was grey: some white froth was congealing about his mouth and stubbled cheek. One of their team approached the man's small family and asked them to go off to one of the cafes to wait, but both Granny and daughter insisted on staying. After a degree of effort an injection was eventually shot into the wax-pale arm. The young girl was now distraught and was sobbing on the shoulder of a stranger who was trying to convince her that Dad will be ok. Another passerby, a woman in her forties, now stood against a shop window and began to pray ostentatiously, her pudgy hands clasped at her chest, her lips moving to the futile words. A father and his little girl wandered by. The father explained to his daugter that the paramedics would fix the poor man.
"But what if the Power Medics can't help him?" she asked. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
A gnomic old woman approached wheeling a battered shopping trolley. She peered down at the man and shook her head. Then she wandered over to the man's family and looked at them quizzically.
"Are you the family?" she silently mouthed at the grandmother. Somebody confirmed this. Satisfied, the old woman took another look at the man on the ground, then she turned to me and said loudly, "'E ain't gunna live. Look at the size of 'im." She nodded in the direction of the woman doctor. "Thass my doctor. Well, she got 'ere fast. Pity she ain't so available on normal days!" Then she trundled her trolly over to speak to the doctor, who sent her away with a dismissive hand gesture. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
Four black teenagers skidded around the corner on their bikes. They took in the drama and began yelling to each other, laughing and generally pissing about before riding off, hooting, down the street.
A policeman began to clear the area, delineating a large pedestrian-free zone with blue-and-white hazard tape. I walked over to an adjacent cafe and bought a coffee. I took it to the outside table where I was joined by a girl in her early twenties. Her friend wandered by and she called excitedly to him, "Jack! Here I am!" After some small talk about the drama, not twenty feet from them, they began loudly chattering about his bike tour of Austria and how exhausting it was, and how his legs really hurt, now.
"Honestly, it nearly killed me!" They went on in this vein for ten minutes, oblivious to the awfulness. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
It had now been forty minutes since the man had collapsed. All this time a small rotation of volunteers had been rhythmically pressing his chest - they swapped over when they became too tired. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump. But now this came to an end. One of the ambulance team called the man's mother and daughter over. Another removed the oxygen mask. Nothing more could be done. A white sheet was brought out of the ambulance and was carefully placed over the man. The man's daughter now sat on the pavement sobbing quietly. Her grandmother bent down at her son's head and cupped his ashen cheeks in her hands, upon which she wore some gold rings - the familiar symbols of fidelity and family.
"Ronnie. Oh, Ronnie, darlin'", she sobbed.
One of the waitresses of the cafe stepped out onto the street and saw my tears.
"Oh my god," she said, "Oh no! Has he gone?"
I walked home through the weak October sunlight, marvelling at the tenacity of the ambulance team, who had continued their efforts for so long. Pump... Pump... Pump... Pump.
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