May, 2000: Mt. Prospect Illinois. I’m standing on a sidewalk near a Metra rail line near a stopped train near a bundle on the tracks. A 23-year-old male, it later turns out, intentionally stopped his car, left the door open, and stepped in front of the train.
The phrase blood on the tracks, always lurking somewhere inside my skull, is finally applicable to real life.
Policemen, looking unhappy, walk the siding, marking bits with little flags. Firemen stand around in groups. A cop finds a sodden red tennis shoe at least 100 yards from the point of impact. “Won’t they let you get any closer?” asks a bystander.
“Why would I want to get any closer?”
A photographer from the Tribune shows up, says he remembers a dog that was hit by a train in Vietnam and survived with two legs. A photographer from the Herald arrives. We all make the obligatory nervous jokes, snap a few pictures. The Herald guy says his pictures won’t run anyway. “I don’t know what your photo policy is, but we don’t run suicides.”
“You have a photo policy?” I ask. “Cool.”
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