Any other day, I would have avoided the last car. But the mechanical falsetto of the CTA’s Siri-esque intercom was warning that the doors were about to close.
The city was asleep, so the train was not crowded. It was about 1:30 in the morning, a witching hour for Chicago’s underground. In the tunnels, the thought does not escape you that these must be interesting people to be out riding so late on a Tuesday. Mostly homeless folks. The mentally ill. Street performers. A few bros on the verge of becoming nocturnal. And late shifters, like me.
I sit kittycorner from a young drunk couple. There is another pair down the train; she is kissing his neck. At the far end of the compartment, a man with a torn duffel is laying across four seats. There are a few others scattered down the car, scrolling on phones or doing crosswords, trying to ignore the smell of bodily fluids and substances not yet legal in Illinois. And at the near end, a big man in a khaki jacket, camo pants, and high tops is fiddling with his zipper.
We are all barely aware of each other. It’s late and subway veterans don’t pay much mind to each other or the subtle oddities or trainlife after dark. So it took several glances for me to really notice what the man in the khaki jacket was up to.
He had pulled a small piece of paper out of an inside pocket and folded it down the middle. He withdrew what looked like a plastic train card. And then, from somewhere deep in a hidden khaki chamber, he unearthed a tiny plastic bag. Inside, white sand collected in a corner.
He did this unveiling in the open. He didn’t turn his back, didn’t try to hide his doings with a coat flap, he barely even hunched. Actually, he was mumbling something, interspersing curse words to no one we could see.
But we were all looking by the time he snorted his first line.
He opened the bag with shaking fingers, spilled a little sand on the paper, and shimmied it into the crease with the train card. Then he lowered his head so his nose was at the end of the line—the way you might if you were just smelling the goods—and inhaled hard. So hard his head jerked up and his hightops lifted off the floor. So hard it looked like whiplash.
Now, I’ve seen Breaking Bad and Blow with Johnny Depp, so that pretty much makes me an expert on drug use, right? No, but you still know it when you see it. And I was seeing it, watching it happen. We all were, as the other riders who weren’t asleep or trashed were now entranced.
A few of us eyed each other. What do we do? That’s the unspoken question obviously circulating with our stares. Is he doing what we think he’s doing? Of course he is.
The man in the khaki jacket draws out another line and breathes it in. The rest of us, now bound together by our shared predicament, exchange more uncertain glances. Should we call someone? Should we say something? Should we do something? But we do nothing, except wear increasingly more concerned looks and watch him watch us.
He pours out more of the powder. Does another line. Jolts suddenly awake before falling back into a droopy, medicated state.
It’s bizarre the things one thinks in such an event. At first you try to rationalize it: No, he’s just ingesting crushed-up pez in a weird way. Then justify it: Maybe he has a prescription. Then contrive any story your imagination will allow: This must be for a movie, yeah? But you know it’s not, because there are no cameras. And then your thoughts change to worry: How much coke can a person do before it kills him? And responsibility: Someone has to do something! The bewildered passengers around you don’t really help: Why should I do something? They should do something. So it becomes a real moral quandary.
And so many more thoughts come to mind: I know it’s illegal, but do I care enough to prevent it when I see it? Does he want us to stop him? Will saying something be more trouble than it’s worth? Will these other people hate me if I buzz for the conductor? He’s an adult; can’t he make his own decisions? He’s not hurting anyone else, is he? It’s almost 2:00 a.m. and I want to get off this train and go to bed.
So still we sit, quietly fidgeting.
He bumps again, spasms, and it appears to be over. He tucks the paper and baggie back inside a pocket. He swivels to put his feet on the seat next to him and, very slowly, like he’s in a time warp, lays back, splayed, given over. The last thing he does is use a finger to brush a bit of white powder off his camo pants, like it’s just baking soda, like it’s nothing. And then he is still.
I am sharing looks with other passengers again. That was messed up, man. At least it’s over now. Looks like we survived that ethical dilemma.
But not quite. Because when we look back at the man, we see that he really is not moving. Not at all. Is he sleeping? Is he in a coma? Is he dead? The thought is ridiculous, but, then again, he did four lines in just a couple minutes. Is that too much? Did Johnny Depp ever do four in two minutes?
We watch the man, now horizontal, hoping to see his high tops shuffle down the seat, narrowing our gaze on the part of his jacket over his chest, thinking the smallest rise and fall of khaki would be enough. The situation feels more grave when the neck-kisser says in a half-whisper, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” is the only response.
And we really don’t.
We may have just watched a drug addict kill himself. That’s the fear, and it may be far-fetched, but it doesn’t feel that way. This is the quietest nightmare we have ever lived. You’re not even sure who the monster is. It may very well be us. Because he’s still laying there, nostrils flaring just enough to restore some comfort, but not enough to keep you from doubting, and the robot is calling my stop—“Doors open on the right at Fullerton”—and I see the open doors, and just leave.
After a few years spent correcting grammatical errors and writing subtle, clever headlines in a Chicago newsroom, Griffin Paul Jackson (’11) now does aid work with refugees in Lebanon. He writes about that, God, and, when the muse descends, Icelandic sheep. Read him here: griffinpauljackson.com.
