Deep Thoughts ...

I recently flashed on a memory I had buried. I have a lot of those. I used to think the gaps in my memory were caused by forgotten sexual abuse in my past. Now I think I just don't always pay very close attention.

In any case, one bright, sunny spring afternoon I found myself in that neighborhood 'tween Chelsea and Gramercy Park,. near Park Ave. South. I happened upon the scene of a deadly traffic accident. A bicyclist, that I later found out to be a bike messenger, had a street meeting with a delivery truck, and was the decided loser. As in dead. While I was fortunate to arrive late enough to not actually witness the accident, I did come upon a very bloody street scene. The body of the victim was covered with a tarp provided by the emergency services personnel. I was informed by one of the other ghoulish onlookers that the poor man had suffered extreme head trauma. It was obvious (to me) that the bits of matter spread throughout the street was a mix of brain tissue and skull. Although the reality that he was dead wasn't a question, there was still the formality of it. In New York City, someone from the Medical Examiner's office still needs to pronounce you dead. Despite the fact that your innards are now outward. A good half hour went by. I watched onlookers linger and then leave. Just as many people walked up to the scene, slowed, and continued on their way. Such is life in New York City. Many of us are too busy to do more than pass by the scene of a traffic death.

After a time, when I presume someone official made the pronouncement of death, the appropriate people had been interviewed and the truck had been photographed and towed for evidence, emergency services placed the body on a stretcher for (again, I presume) transport to the morgue. It was then that the most remarkable thing happened. It was the part that horrified, fascinated and amazed me. Perhaps it shouldn't have. I don't know. But the part I never stopped to consider was how the scene of an extreme accident was cleaned. The answer, at least in NYC is by the Fire Department. With their hoses. And the New York City sewer system. I watched, as all the blood and skull and bits of brain matter were all unceremoniously washed down the closest street drain. It makes perfect sense. Life, and the city, must go on. Still, the coldness of the act filled me with awe and sadness. It was as if the essence of the person was being washed away. And while that's not true at all, there was a lesson to be learned. You can take life as seriously as you like. You can fail to find the joy in the things you do. You can focus on how unhappy you are in life or the person you've become. Or you can keep in mind that no matter what, there's always the possibility that your day could end with the NYFD washing what's left of your guts down the drain. And act accordingly.



I choose the latter.