BART follies Or overdose schmoverdose

Plenty of people sleep in the Civic Center BART station, which is in a bad neighborhood quickly becoming a good one thanks to city plans for hypergentrification. Literally, one can step over heroin needles and lumps of human shit on the way to the fancy oyster bar and cheese shop. Many of the sleepers in the BART are just that, but sometimes a daily commuter can spot a new person who is obviously in some trouble. Track marks and face-scarring, shallow breathing, no response to foot traffic or music or even being prodded.

A healthcare worker of some sort (white coat, stethoscope) on her commute stopped as I did to stand over an unconscious man this morning. She prodded him with her toe, asked if he needed help, to no response. I stuck around because sometimes people react violently to being woken up or questioned. He was still responsive after a few attempts, so I went to get the BART agent.

First, I was cut off on my way by a British tourist—and I thought Brits respected queues—who couldn't handle the BART machines, and had to buy a ticket for him and his two friends, who apparently had to waddle over with their luggage from across the concourse to watch. Then it was my turn and I explained that there was an unconscious man in the hall.

"Oh, he's just sleeping" the agent said.

"No, he isn't. He's unconscious."

"He's sleeping—"

"He is more than just sleeping," I insisted.

"Okay, I'll come check," the agent said, finally.

I walked back to the other commuter—the guy was still unresponsive—and told her that the agent was coming. We turned to see that she was back with the British tourists, helping them use their BART cards. Already late for work, I had to leave and did so when the agent turned our way and finally started sauntering up to the kid at my feet.

Hope we don't end up with a corpse in the BART in a few minutes.