Three tokens to make the trip home

He used three tokens to get home; usually, all it takes is one. He was coming from the pool hall, where he had narrowly lost a match. All of the games could have been his, save for a bad break here or there; satisfying, nonetheless. The first token? When he reached the subway, a woman was having trouble entering the turnstile — there was no operator present and all she had were paper tickets; she was confused and upset.

No one ought to be confused and upset when they are alone at night. He gave her a token, no big deal. Her confusion deepened, so he explained that she should deposit the token in the slot, then push her way through the turnstile while at the same time stepping into it; a tricky move for some people. He guessed she was a lousy dancer. He figured the token was worth it for the relief it gave her.

When he entered a moment later, using the second token, he heard a moaning sound, deeply unnatural, coming from somewhere.

When he reached the stairs leading down to the platform, there was a young man — a boy, really — waiting at the bottom, holding the handrail, standing very still.

“Hey, buddy, that you who made the noise?”

The boy nodded. He looked afraid. He leaned against the handrail and began to tremble. “Buddy, you OK?” The boy couldn’t catch his breath. He shook his head; no, not OK.

“What’s the matter?” “I can’t breathe.” “You need a hand going up?” It was clear the boy needed more than a hand. “What’s wrong?” said the man. “My chest hurts. I coughed up some blood.”

The man looked at the floor; there was a splash of red by the boy’s shoes; whether it had been coughed up or spat up, this was serious.

There was no one else around to lend a hand. “OK, let’s get you some help. Can you make it up the stairs?” “I think so.” They walked arm in arm, one slow step at a time. The boy had to stop for breath along the way.

When they reached the landing, the older man felt for the boy’s pulse; it was rapid, almost fluttery, vaguely electrical.

They walked towards the exit, not far from where the woman had had so much trouble entering.

“Look,” said the man. “You wait here, where it’s warm. Breathe deeply. Breathe slowly. I’m going to call an ambulance.” There was no protest. The boy sat on a window ledge. He was still shaking. The man called 911. The operator was thorough and logical in his questions, and he assured the man that help was on the way; at the mention of chest pain, he asked if the man had an Aspirin he could give the boy. No Aspirin, damn. The man stepped out onto the sidewalk to wait for the ambulance and he kicked himself, because he is at an age when he is aware of the uses of Aspirin for more than headaches, and he should have had some with him in his pocket.

The ambulance took mere minutes.

The boy was able to exit through the turnstile on his own, slowly, slowly, out of the station and into the arms of the ambulance crew.

They took him in and sat him down, and it was warm inside the ambulance, and they attached monitors to his arms and his legs, and all of this took some time because it was difficult for the boy to respond; he was breathing shallowly and fast, and he was shaking badly.

The ambulance crew then said they were going to take him to the hospital, and the man asked if there was a phone number he might call on the boy’s behalf — family, a friend, anybody.

The ambulance disappeared a moment later, lights flashing, racing in a careful hurry, and the older man dialled the number the boy had given him.

There was no one home. He left a message describing what had happened and he gave the time, and the name of the hospital.

He used his third token, finally, to enter the subway and go home; he has no idea how the story ended. Joe Fiorito appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday. jfiorito@thestar.ca

There was no one else there to lend a hand, so he pitched in and helped the boy