A glow from down below caught my eye–a fire in the 4-5-6 train cigarette butt wasteland 15 feet below.
I called 911 from a pay phone, which offered me up a flashback from the golden era of pay phones 15 years before. As I went back and forth with the not very nice NYPD dispatcher lady (Is it outside? No, not really. Well, is it inside? Hmm, not really inside either.), smoke started to pour out of the grate.
She connected us to an FDNY guy. I told him the address. He barked out 225!, and said he was sending a truck.
I was already late for work and didn’t stick around to watch.