Dying Alone

A homeless man just died 10 yards in front of my window. Every night around 11 p.m., this man would lie down behind the large concrete slab decorating the Leverett House lawn, cover himself with blue, turquoise and tan blankets and fall asleep. Usually I would only half-notice him, except for the cold nights when I’d feel a stab of regret as I pulled my shade down to my radiator. In the mornings, while I was checking my e-mail or combing my hair, he would wake up between 8 and 9 a.m., stumble around a bit, urinate, pick up his bag and walk away. The man became a part of my daily routine.

On Monday morning he didn’t wake up. When I ran past him on my morning run, I assumed he was sleeping in, a thought that made me smile to myself. I don’t know how the construction worker knew to call the police, as most citizens don’t make a habit of approaching sleeping homeless people burrowed in blankets. But he called at 3 p.m. on his cell phone, and the University police came. Donning gloves, they shook the homeless man, paused a moment and rolled him over. As his body turned, his arms remained locked above his head in rigor mortis. My roommates and I winced. Within minutes a chorus of sirens and flashing lights arrived, and an EMT checked for a pulse. The body was covered in a white sheet before the ambulance pulled away, the area was roped off, and an officer began inspecting the man’s bags. My roommates and I stood with our mouths open, staring out the window.

My suite was never particularly fond of this man—we have less than a penchant for public urination. Yet, the scene was shocking. We all watch “Law and Order,” but this time there was no blood, no violence. It appeared that a random homeless man died somewhat passively in his sleep on a beautiful night.

But suddenly the Harvard bubble was popped.

The safety sphere of college existence was penetrated by a trespasser who died on our front lawn. He had seemed healthy enough when he went to bed, and then, just like that, he up and died. The man who had been a staple of the Leverett House river view for years died alone—a blatant encroachment of the buffer zone between college and the real world.

After about an hour of officers conversing with each other, a large white van arrived to remove the body. As the double-gloved police officers checked the man’s feet and pockets, a group of preschoolers approached on their daily afternoon walk, all attached to one of those rope-devices reminiscent of jail-lines. Seeing the children, the officers moved into super-speed body-bagging, wrenching the man’s arms down to fit into the bag. They zipped the bag up just as the children crossed the street, blocking the gurney from view with their bodies. The children didn’t notice.

A gloved officer collected the dead man’s blankets and belongings into black garbage bags. The gurney was rolled into the van, the “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape was taken down, and the van pulled away. No signs of death remained.

With the Harvard Bubble once again intact, my roommates and I returned to our respective rooms and problem sets.