Train Science

I am on my way to my birthday dinner in Manhattan. I enter the subway and get down to the platform just as an F train is pulling into the station. I hop on the train and grab a seat between a couple of white college looking kids and a middle aged black man.

The train has barely left the station when a homeless man enters the car and starts singing a song about chicken.

Kind of.

He is “playing” the harmonica and I can’t really tell what he is saying but it sounds like he is singing the song “Feelings” except every time the word ‘feelings’ should appear, he is using the word ‘chicken.’ It is apparently an appeal for somebody to give him some food.

Typically in this situation I don’t make eye contact, I just look down, which is what I am doing now.

I have my legs crossed and am staring at my knee as the homeless man works his way through the train asking people for money. Of course I was the only one he touched on the knee. I can’t stop staring at my knee praying for something else to happen.

So he passes through our car and moves on to the next. The black man to my right takes this as his cue to rant about how dumb it is to sing about chicken.

I have no iPod with me, no reading materials. I can’t even pretend to be immersed in anything. I had planned to lose myself in self-reflective birthday thoughts, but instead I am suddenly part of a conversation I am not participating in.

The black guy next to me is cracking jokes and being extremely loud about the homeless man who just left the train. He is hitting me on the arm like we are old buddies. It is when I turn to acknowledge him that I smell the hot wind of brandy.

And sure enough he pulls out a fifth of V.S.O.P. wrapped in a black plastic bag and takes a big sip.

I don’t say anything, I just smile politely and nod.

The two white kids to my left however, see this as an opportunity to make a new friend. So now drunk guy on my right, and white kids on my right are talking. The white kids start using slang they hadn’t been using before, saying things like “you gotta do what you gotta do” and using words like “hustle.”

My mouth remains shut. And then the drunk guy starts talking about his career in Mortuary Science.

Yep that’s right, he’s a mortician.

And anybody can do it too. Do you know how I know? Well because my new friend tells me right off the bat that he did ten years in prison before getting his Mortuary Science degree and if he can do it, anybody can do it.

He says other things as well but all I can focus on is the fact that I have never sat this close to anybody who has been to prison.

But he goes on. Being a mortician is quite easy. He shares that all you need to do is take the glue and plug the holes.

It’s just all holes. Nose holes, ear holes, pee holes.

At this point the white kids are just eating this stuff up. I have yet to speak but they are asking all kinds of questions. Where he went to school, when he went to school, etc.

And he's not quiet. He is talking loudly, not yelling exactly, but the train is quiet and his voice carries. And I imagine the rest of the train is just as eager to hear his story as we are.

He then tells us a story about how when you die it is possible to die with an erection. How does our friend know this? Well apparently a girl in his Mortuary Science class got kicked out of school for having sex with a cadaver.

And then he makes gigantic masturbatory gesticulations while laughing wildly.

At this point my insides are folding themselves into origamied discomfort.

I also learn that he loves being a mortician it because the gas that preserves dead bodies gets you high:

Ya know because it’s basically just Angel dust. That’s true!

He says that aside from the fact that he gets high, a dead body is

The worst smelling shit of your life. And women stink more than men because…

I’ll spare you the details on that one.

I still have not spoken but the white kids keep egging him on and making puns, acting like this was the first black person they have ever spoken to in their life.

You know what they say about Mortuary Science, people are dying to get into it.

I am so uncomfortable yet I am about as still as a cadaver, somehow thinking that will make this stop. But it doesn’t.

He’s doing quite well for himself. Apparently he is making $120,000 a year but he really wants to go back to school for autopsies.

Because you know, basically I’m a doctor then.

I nod. Because that is the only thing my body will let me do. But now I’m straining my neck trying to see what kind of watch he has on, trying to indiscreetly check out his sneakers. I am trying to gage if this guy is making six figures why is he sitting on a train drinking a fifth of brandy.

He touches on other topics like how he has no idea how to use a computer. And then, he asks me a direct question, which means I have to actually speak. He asks me what I am in school for. I tell him I have been working for six years.

The only benefit of this is he can stop telling me to major in Mortuary Science. But he doesn’t stop leaning into me, over me, exhaling his 80 proof beliefs upon my ears.

Eventually he tells me it makes sense that he hangs out with dead bodies because:

You know, I done killed some ninjas.

Except he didn’t say ninjas. Understand?

So now my heart is in a full out rave panic mode as I try to comprehend when this train ride is going to end and how I am going to get away from the mass murdering mortician who spent a decade in prison.

The train pulls into Queensbridge and he tells us this is his stop. He then gives us all five and leaves us with this piece of advice.

Get into mortuary science.

Then he stood up and I saw he was wearing a Spider-Man t-shirt.

The Accident

I spent 2 hours with Roman 10 years ago. He was a short, bald, monosyllabic Eastern European who, as we would find out later, was prone to unpredictable blackouts. I had never delivered furniture with Roman before, nor would I ever again.

I usually delivered furniture with the owner Al or his son Mark. We’d load up a gutted 15 passenger van with tables, chairs and movers’ blankets and deliver our goods, sometimes stopping for a sandwich or soda along the way.

The job was an easy one. Load the van, drive to the customer, unload, set up, and then drive back. We would deliver beds, dressers and entertainment centers to everybody from dog breeders to drug dealers.

This particular Saturday morning Al said he had a delivery that would take a couple of hours tops. I get to the store and find out I will be going with Roman. I shake Roman’s hand but he doesn't say much.

The van is already loaded up so we take off. Roman is hungry so we park on the street across from a 7-Eleven.




We run across the street and I get a snack and a Red Bull. I have never had a Red Bull before but they are getting quite popular and I am curious.

We cross back to the van while the light is still red and get in. I don’t recall Roman or I putting our seat belts on. I do remember taking a sip of the Red Bull. I also remember the city bus next to us at the light.

The light turns green and instead of waiting for traffic to pass and then merging into the lane behind the bus, Roman starts to drive parallel to the bus. I worry that this is not legal or safe since we are not technically in a lane yet.



We accelerate quickly. The bus crosses in front of us to stop and drop off passengers in front of the Pizza Hut.

We don't slow. I don't look at Roman but if I did I would see that he is unconscious.

My awareness of what is about to happen quickly heightens and I shout Roman... ROMAN while clutching the armrest with my left hand and holding the Red Bull in my right.

I can't tell you how fast we are going, as fast as it takes a 15 passenger van to go from a standstill and cross a major intersection. Whether it was true or an illusion caused by the stopped bus in front of us, it feels like we are accelerating the whole time. It feels like we are going 40.

I close my eyes and brace myself.

There is a sound of heavy metal crunching and when I open my eyes and turn to my left I see bloodied Roman slumped over a steering wheel that is now bent in half. The windshield is smashed and spider webbed where his face hit it. I immediately try to get out of the van and run for help but can't because my seat belt is on.

When did I do that?

I unbuckle and run into the Pizza Hut. I am frenetic uncontolled adrenaline. I feel nothing and nothing is in focus. I shout for somebody to call 911, that there was a car accident. A room full of blank faces stares back at me almost as if the entire restaurant has been paused. Nobody moves.

Police are called. Bloodied Roman makes his way into the Pizza Hut bathroom. Ambulances come.

I leave my boss a voicemail. I don't call my parents. I want to know exactly what is happening before I make my mother panic. This is something I will replicate at later points in life. Something I give great care to replicate.... something my sister however will miss in this scenario.

I don’t know what I would say anyway:

Hi Mom I am fine but... how do you get glass out of someone’s face?

Pass.

I feel like I have whiplash but nothing else is injured. The police ask me if I want to go to the hospital. I refuse. They double check.

Finally I decide to call home. My sister picks up. I tell her what has happened and to come get me. The note she left my mother begins like this:

Mom
Rich was in a car accident. He is fine…

But really, by the time she got to the he is fine, it was already too late. She should have led with that.

My sister arrives. She calls my parents. Take your time they say, don't rush home they say. My sister says we have to stop for gas on the way home. I don’t understand why we can’t just go home.

We get to the gas station and my dad calls my sister again. I pick up. He asks where we are and I tell him. He tells me to hurry home.

I hang up confused. Your son has just been in a car that crashed into the back of a city bus and you tell him to hurry home?

I am still in shock, nothing really makes sense.

We finally make it home. My parents come out to meet me. They are dressed like they are going to barb-b-q though I don’t recall them being invited to one. We go into the kitchen and I sit down. My mother fusses over me the way mothers are allowed to. She repeatedly asks me if I want to take a shower.

What for? To wash the accident off?

I’m fine mom. I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine!

She is wringing her hands, she is nervous. I tell her I am fine I just want to sit and relax. She walks me into the back of the house where the blinds leading into the backyard are all closed. Her voice is full of worry.

I don’t know how else to do this but…

And she opens the blinds.

There in my backyard are 50 of my closest friends, teachers, and relatives, all gathered for a surprise party for me, a party to congratulate me on my high school accomplishments.

For the first time in hours, my world comes back into focus. Sheepishly, I finally agree to take a shower. Though I am still in complete disbelief that I am actually able to, on this, the luckiest day of my life.