Last Stop

Daniel Pope

Outside the train station a man lies on the concrete brick walkway, his head resting in a pool of blood. His skull is buzzed and the blood leaks brightly out of a wound above his left temple. Just beyond the pool is his camouflage-patterned cap.

You’re so taken aback by the sight that at first you walk right by it. You consider pretending you haven’t noticed, swinging your gaze up past the movie theater to the clouds clotting at the pink horizon. But instead, you stop and turn. A sense of social responsibility compels you to be seen doing something.

A middle-aged guy in sunglasses stands above the injured man, studying him. Another man in a sweaty tank top stands a few feet away, talking into his phone. His shoulders are the color of hot dogs. From the look of it he’s having a casual conversation. Across the street, people file past the theater; around you, people file past the bleeding man.

The bleeding man raises a hand and presses it into the concrete. The guy with the sunglasses bends down so far it looks like he’ll keel over on top of him. Staring down through his aviators, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells: Don’t get up!

The wounded man seems to mumble something in response, but you can’t hear. At the edge of the pool, the blood leaks down into the spaces between gray bricks, creating a tiny map of an apocalyptic city, its streets lined with gore—a city that’s perhaps only one stop away for most of us. 

Lie down! the guy shouts again through his hands.

The bleeding man, who hasn’t lifted himself an inch, drops his hand back at his side, where it rests beside his army-surplus cap. 

A woman wearing big hoop earrings and a purple dress walks by rubber-necking, then stops where you are. 

Is he okay? she asks you. 

You’re startled by how close she is. I don’t think so, you say.

Should I call an ambulance?

I think he is, you say, and you point at the man in the tank top, who paces back and forth, his phone to his ear. 

Okay, she says.

His sun-damaged shoulders shake in laughter.

Or maybe not, you say.

She remains there, next to you. Together, you stare at the blood. At the edge of it, where it stops flowing through the canals, the color seems to fade out. It looks like water. You wonder what the deal is with that.

Nobody is in charge here. Some people in raincoats and hoodies with a boombox sit on a low concrete barrier encircling a planted tree. The tree withers like a scolded dog. The boombox plays hip-hop, and one of the people on the low concrete wall plays a harmonica over it. You wonder if any of them know how lonely they are.

You approach them.

Excuse me, you say. Has anyone called 911 at all?

They’re not picking up, says the man on the phone behind you.

Don’t get up! the guy in sunglasses shouts again.

The injured man has sat up, clutching at his face. He appears drunk, his head lolling in his palms, but it may be the concussion. Purple blood sits in his beard like jam. On the ground, where his head was, it looks like ketchup smeared around on a plate. 

Stay down! sunglasses guy shouts again. You’ll make it worse!

Why don’t I try calling? you say to the man in the tank top, who doesn’t seem to hear you.

You call. It rings for a whole minute before you hang up and try again. You let it ring for two minutes, then hang up and try again. Meanwhile, the woman in the purple dress steps closer to the injured man, who has lain obediently back into his blood puddle. She whistles low.

Lotta blood, she says when she returns to you. Think he’s going to be okay?

You hang up the phone again. I think probably not, you say. But I’m no doctor.

You’re a doctor? she says, outraged. 

I am not, you clarify.

To think, she says, not missing a beat, to think we just have all this stuff—she points to the blood—inside of us. This whole time.

She looks you in the face. Her makeup is running.

And do we deserve it? she says, gesturing sharply with one livid hand. To be cursed with these bodies? 

You’re startled. Nobody ever talks to you like this. 

Just—fragile containers of goop? she goes on.

Goop? you say. 

Jars of goop, she says. Jars made of paper-thin glass, full of goop. Do we deserve to be such fragile, paper-thin glass jars of—

Hold on, you say, putting a finger up as you answer your buzzing phone.

You called 911 and hung up, the woman shouts over the line.

Yes, you say. I’m outside the train station. There’s a man here with a head injury. There’s a lot of blood, and—

We know, the woman says. They’re on their way. Was that all?

Oh, you say. Yes. That was all. Bye.

One wrong move, the woman in the purple dress is saying, shaking her head. Her earrings ring against her jaw and she runs a pink enameled nail lightly across her neck, staring dreamily at the blood. It really makes you thankful, she says. 

You think a moment. I thought it was unfair, you say.

What?

I thought we didn’t deserve to be paper-thin glass goop jars.

Maybe she thinks you’re making fun of her. Life is a wonderful gift, she says angrily.

Life is a beautiful curse, you say. 

She shakes her head. You don’t understand, she says. You’re young. You’ve probably never seen anything like this before.

No, you say. I haven’t. 

You don’t tell her that you’ve pictured it. You don’t tell her you almost jumped.  

Don’t get up! sunglasses guy shouts down at the ailing man, emphasizing each word.

Earlier, as your train came to a stop, the one across the platform started running the other direction, jarring you with the illusion of continued movement, with no way out. You panicked for a second, but then the doors whooshed open. Floating backs of heads were replaced by floating faces. This is the last stop on this train, a recorded voice blared.

Now, standing out here with all these apparitions under a throbbing dark sky, you wonder what you were so afraid of. Where were you going, anyway? All of us are bound for the same place: the shining city on the hill, or the grave, or just the next in an endless series of identical platforms full of identical people, stepping in and out of our collective stillborn dream.

Your phone buzzes you out of your thoughts.

Hello? the same woman says. You called 911 and hung up? Her voice sounds sulky, offended that you have done such a thing.

Yes, you say. I just talked to you. The man with the head and the blood.

What?

At the station.

How many times did you call? she says, now horrified.

Just twice, you say.

They’re on their way, she says sadly, as if pitying you. 

When you hang up, the woman is gone. You hear a clicking noise and look around for a moment before you realize it’s the injured man. He has turned onto his side and is now staring up at you. The carmine blood glitters under the streetlamps like a massive garnet adorning his forehead, and a streak of it is painted over his ear. With his face tipped up into the dim light, you can see clearly that his skull is cratered in above the temple. Blood oozes slowly toward your shoes. How much could be left inside of him?

You realize suddenly that you’re looking at a dying man. And he has no idea. It gives him an awful power. 

He clicks his tongue a few more times and shouts: Do you hear that?

You point at yourself.

Yeah, you!

I hear it, you say.

What?

You step between channels of blood in the gray bricks and kneel down close to him. His eyes are blue, rimmed with pink. You nod gravely and shout: I hear it!

Are you shouting? he says.

Can you hear me? you yell.

He frowns. His eyes glisten.

Am I going to die? he asks.

A crack of anger runs through the ground, like a canal of blood, cutting him off from you. Why should you be the one who has to tell him? But then you pause a moment, and the anger lies down and becomes melancholy, which is dark blue, like the deepening night sky beating helplessly against the blank shoreline of distant buildings.

We’re all going to die, you say softly.

What?
We’re all going to die! you shout. 

The man looks confused for a moment. Then he says: Hey, hey. It’s cool.

He reaches a hand out and pats you on the face. His fingerprints are distinctly outlined with grime. You realize you’re crying. 

Am I talking right now? the man says.

You nod. He drops his hand. 

Did you just nod? he says.

From a distance comes the soft whine of sirens, slowly increasing in volume. Two cop cars, SUVs, careen around a corner, pull a U-turn, and drive up alongside the curb beyond the tree. A large man with tiny arms gets out with his partner, a short red-haired man with no eyelashes. They lean against their car and cross their arms. Nobody gets out of the other car. 

Am I going to die? the man asks you again.

His voice is so low you can barely hear it over the boombox. His eyes are dull. You are bent over him like a surgeon. You don’t know what to say, so you give him a thumbs-up and stand. The guy with the aviators has gone to talk to the cops.

Then what’re you doing here? he’s shouting. If you’re not taking him, then what’re you here for?

Calm down, sir, says the large cop.

Just making sure everything is above board, says the short cop.

Your phone buzzes.

You called 911 and hung up, the same voice says again.

Sorry, you say. I guess I called three times.

What?

Another siren—this one lower, making whooping sounds, like a monkey—tears through the air. It’s the ambulance, finally, swerving around the line of brake lights. It shoots past the theater across the street, zooms around the median, and pulls up behind the cop cars, its alternating red and white lights hurling frenetic, dancing shadows against the pavement. The withered tree sways. The boombox people applaud and the one with the harmonica does an impression of the siren. You put a finger into your other ear to hear the woman on the phone better. 

What the hell is that racket? she says.

We just talked, you shout. About the guy at the station? I guess I called three times, but I mistakenly told you two. It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m sorry!

Unbelievable, the woman says.

Does this happen a lot? you shout.

It’s my first day, she says. Or maybe she said: Every day. It doesn’t matter. She has hung up.

You crouch again over the man, who has turned onto his back. He looks up at you out of his enormous and childlike face. The dried blood on his forehead shines like gold leaf in the swooping red light. His clay cheeks bear the thumbprints of whatever wrathful god created him. 

You have to get out of there.

They’re here, you say. You’re going to be great.

What? he says.

Have a good evening, you say.

He closes his eyes. A tear clings to his chin, utterly still, like dried glue. Or maybe it’s snot. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue again. A halo of blood flashes around his head.

You stand and turn to walk across the street. The cops don’t even glance your way. Behind you, the man continues clicking. It seems to you that some fault line runs down your chest, splitting you in two, and that you have to press the two sides of yourself together to continue upright. When you get to the other side of the street, you don’t look back. You just keep walking around the theater and through the parking lot and up the next street, then turn right, then left, then cross the street to your apartment building, which stands next to a funeral parlor. Men in black suits are gathered along the sidewalk, nodding. One of them looks at you, and in a throaty, practiced tone meant to convey comfort, says: And are you here for the service?

Please don’t talk to me, you say.

Up in your apartment you lie down in the dark in your bed with all your clothes on. For a while you continue hearing the clicks. The blood creaks in your brain. Then you must fall asleep.

You open your eyes and you’re lying in a coffin, pitching along upon a river of blood, a spindly dark city rearing up on all sides. The air is like a red velvet drape resting against your face and the sun a lightbulb shining through the bright pink bladder of a fish. The air tastes like pennies and you can barely breathe for the stench. But then the phone rings.

You called 911 and hung up, the woman says.

Oh God, you say. Yes. I did. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.