David Green Dies 6 and ½ Times

1.  David Green sat on the train stalled between stations.  Out beyond, in the great expanse of dark tunnel, a single man could be seen wearing an oily orange vest, a dented hard hat, his dark overalls stained with perspiration and grease.  The train was hot.  Green fanned himself with yesterday’s New York Times.  The lights flickered and then went out.  The passengers groaned.  The door was pried open.  David Green was facing the MTA worker.  There was the strong smell of oil and electricity.  The sooty face was a few feet from his face.  “You, I need your help,” the man barked, pointing at Green.  “Me?” Green asked, holding up the paper in defense.  “Yeah, you, common.  I need your help or you’re all screwed.”  “Down there?” Green pointed at the dark track. “Yeah, where else? Common fella, we haven’t much time.”  Green was track-side.  The length of the disabled train was hidden by the long curve of the track.  The worker was anxious and directive.  “Hold this wire, the green one.  And hold this wire, the red one, and don’t cross’em.” The wire jutted out from a panel in the side of the train.  Green felt dizzy. He held the wires in trembling hands.  “It’s too dark to see,” Green managed to say. “Buddy, be careful!” But it was too late: the wires crossed, David Green became the conduit and he fell down and died.