When 54-year-old James (last name withheld) fell backward on 125th Street and Lexington Avenue in Harlem, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he made a few short gurgling noises — the tell-tale signs of an apparent overdose.
Yet nobody on the busy intersection on the morning of April 25 seemed to care — if anything, they seemed more aggravated by his condition tainting their morning commutes.
Minutes earlier, James sat with his back against a vacant storefront and cried out in agony as another man laughed at James who was clearly suffering from substance abuse issues. Kicking him with his shoe, the man chuckled once more before continuing on his way.
James seemed to enjoy the brief respite before he lost control of almost everything, thanks to an apparent overdose.
With his eyes turning a ghostly white, he slumped backward and fell. Liquid poured from his lips and dripped down the sidewalk. Then came a horrid snort that abruptly stopped as soon as it erupted from deep within.
I am not a doctor, nor am I medically trained — but I was certain he had stopped breathing.
“Sir! Sir!” I cried out, shaking him. No response.
I had been waiting for the M35 bus to Randall’s Island when I spotted the collapse. As I kneeled beside the man, terrified about what was surely an impending loss of life, my fellow commuters simply looked over before boarding the bus — doing nothing.
Others who pounded the sidewalk as they rushed by merely made crude remarks such as “It’s another one,” or “This street.” One individual even chastised the unconscious man for an apparent drug dependency — as if the unconscious man could still hear.
I like to believe in the best of humanity — that in dire situations people will always do the right thing, yet that morning, April 25, I was disgusted by the indifference on display as a man lay dying.
I dialed 911 and the operator instructed me to turn him on his side. Seconds later, he began to slightly convulse….
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