Train Story

So, I was sitting on the G train the other day after work. It was rush hour. Not a regular rush hour either, it was much worse. Not only was it Friday, but it there was a blizzard starting up outside so most people got out of work early and just about all of Brooklyn was on that train. Plus, because of the storm the train was late, which always made it over crowded.
There was a very live energy on the train. A just got out of work early, there's a blizzard outside, it's Friday kind of energy. The train was obnoxiously loud and very stuffy. I was one of the lucky drones to get a seat; at least I thought I was lucky.
The 1970s style, orange and yellow seats of the G train are set-up the same way as most trains are; seats on either side, facing each other. Sporadically, there are couples of seats that face the opposite way. These seats give the passenger an open view of the train car. I sat on the edge of one of these seats.

After a couple of stops I began to daze off into the numbing sounds of the train crowd buzzing about and the chorus of the train noise. My senses were quickly stirred when the man sitting directly behind me snapped and yelled out in a tough raspy voice, "Well excuse me mothafuckah!" at another passenger as he tried to squeeze by him to sit down.
Reflexively, my eyes cut sideways to the reflected image in the scratched plexi-glass train window. Surprisingly, my preconceptions about what the man with the attitude looked like were way off. I figured him for a thug, turns out he was a thug-turned businessman. I saw the distorted image of a thirty-something year old black man in dress shoes and slacks and a tight-knit winter cap. His physical appearance was more like that of a gentleman than a thug. It was difficult to imagine him even saying such words. Being that he did speak the way he did, I assumed he was probably a successfully recycled product of our prison system.

"Fuckin put your elbow in my face again bitch," he mumbled nonchalantly to the other man who grew very apparently nervous and embarrassed.

The other passenger was a much older man, probably in his fifties. He looked meek the way he held his briefcase tightly in one hand. He uncomfortably fidgeted with his glasses and said almost uncertainly, "I'm sorry sir." Then even softer he muddled, " I did say excuse me."

The irritated passenger sucked his teeth and cut his eyes. In a few moments, the regular train hubbub invaded the audio landscape again as I began to drift back and forth between sleep and consciousness. The slow unsteady rocking motion of the train, the dim lights, the lack of oxygen, and the blurred harmonies of the crowd began to hypnotize my cognizance. My eyelids grew heavy and I think I dozed off.

The bell sound of the train doors opening at the next stop awoke me. My half masked eyes made a slow and steady glance around the car and stopped at a peculiar young man, or boy really, that was leaning against the train door. This guy had all the obvious characteristics of a typical New York thug. A black Northface jacket with the fur lined hood over a black knit cap that covered three quarters of his face, the man stood slouched with his pants sagged almost to the knees. I made notice of him, if only for a second and turned back around to settle back into my slumber.
Not even a second passed before the ruckus began.

"What the fuck are you looking at!" I heard coming from the thug leaning against the door behind me.

I turned slow and steady toward the voice. I was expecting to be cursed at again, but I was relieved that the gangster thug wasn't talking to me, but to the ex-gangster turned businessman that was involved in the earlier conflict. My instinct quickly changed gears from fight or flight to sit and eavesdrop. "This ought to be great. I'm in for a treat now," I thought sarcastically as a watched the entire train car's attention focus in on the impending situation about to occur. A nervous tension gripped the stale air on the underground battleship and I shifted my position in such a way that I could catch a clear glimpse of both men through their distorted reflections in the scratched train window.

"What, you find me attractive?" The young thug quipped caustically. "You wanna kiss me?"

The older man looked left and right rapidly, then asked as if genuinely confused, "You talking to me?" "I know you ain't talkin to me!"

"Yeah, I'm talking to you princess," his voice was very calm and his volume was low and relaxed. He extended his chin upward and smirked arrogantly. "So what?"

"Niggah don't fuck with me!" "I'm not in the ----

The younger punk remained very calm yet he interrupted rapidly, "I see you. Think you're hard huh? You wanna die acting hard? Or you wanna live proving it?"

"WHAT! You have any idea who you fuckin' wit? I'm a veteran son, I was whoopin nigguz asses while you was still shittin yours!" The older man stirred in his seat. It was very apparent that his blood began to boil. "You have no idea what you fuckin wit!" He remained seated. "I'm harder than a bag a nails!"

At this point everyone was paying close attention to the spectacle but in that New York, none of my business, let me look around and pretend I'm not noticing this calamity to avoid becoming part of it, type way. There was a particular uneasiness in the characters that were in the crossfire of the two disruptive passengers. It was much too obvious that they heard the entire conversation, and they really struggled to focus their attention elsewhere.

The young punk remained poised up against the train doors. "I don't respect you son. I know you my elder, and I'm posa spec you, but I don't. I don't give a fuck son. I'm fucking crazy kid. Ax anyone in the hood kid."

The man in the seat began to tense up and he was twitching his shoulders upward rhythmically when he spoke. "Oh okay, we'll see what happen if we get off at the same stop ---

"I'm gettin off at the nex stop, Nostrand Avenue. You think I'm scared of you're ol' wrinkly ass. I don't respec you, I don't spec anyone nigga. Ax anyone in the hood. I live at 575 Washington Avenue, Apt 6F son. My name is Mac Peril. I ain't scared a you. I gotchyou at Nostrand son. Step out da train wit me and we see."

The businessman began to rise from his seat. The aura of panic began to flow around the train car. I watched carefully through the scratched reflection as other passengers made quick glances at the men and dashed their eyes away before they could be caught looking. I'm thinking the whole time about the possibility that one of these assholes pulls a gun and catches me accidentally. By the looks on people's faces, I could tell I wasn't the only one having these thoughts.

As the older man set himself upright and cocked his head back with his chest out and upward, Mac began again, "You wanna die today nigga. I'll take your life. Step off the ---

A woman who was standing in the crossfire of the two men, could no longer contain the silence she held up to that point. She shouted, "Stop this stupid shit!" She turned to the sighing thug that stood at the doorway, "You gonna get your ass kicked, stop acting like a child and cool out." Then she quickly turned to the now standing business man who made a step toward her in order to close in on the punk, "And you! You gonna let a little punk get a rise out of you like this? Can't you see, he just trying to antagonize you, why you feeding into that shit man? You wiser than that! I'm not gonna stand here and watch two brothers kill each other!" She took a breath and pursed her lips to begin the next sentence when she was abruptly interrupted.

"Yeah, you better listen to her man. You a punk, you might as well accept it, in front of everyone on this train, you should punk down kid. I'm evil, you can't fuck wit this shit. I'll take your life. I don't respec you son, you a punk." Mac finally stood up straight and provokingly took a step in the businessman's direction. "I live for this shit. I enjoy pain, that's what I love. I want you to hurt me. I wanna test how real you really are. Cause I think you a bitch."

You could sense the nervousness. The passenger's teeth were on edge. The businessman, though trying to hide it, emitted apprehension and you could see the dilemma weighing on his soul as he argued the lady passenger's point in his head over and over.
The trains heavy metal wheels shrieked as the brakes were pressed bringing the locomotive into the subway station. "Bedford/Nostrand Avenue," the distorted voice of the conductor came through the speaker. The interest of the passengers became increasingly obvious as the train pulled to a stop and all eyes were now uninhibitedly staring directly at the two assailants.
It was funny to me that these passengers remained silent and nervous through this entire episode, yet as the train pulled into the station that would set the stage for disaster, there seemed to be a sense of relief. The very same occurrence that had everyone tense and edgy only a few moments before, now seemed to be serving as some twisted form of entertainment. Myself included. I even turned myself around in my seat to get a better view of the fight that was about to erupt.

I must confess, as disturbing as it sounds, that it was a bit of a disappointment that when the train doors opened at Nostrand Avenue no climactic explosion took place at all. I saw the two men leave the car but my vision was obstructed by the mob of people exiting and entering the train. The bustle and noise as the train pulling out of the station was hindrance to trying to hear any yelling or other typical fight sounds.

As the train pulled out of the well-lit subway station back into its black monotonous tunnel, I let out a large sigh and let my shoulders relax inward to my chest as I shut my eyes. And as I sat, trying to reach my previously interrupted state of relaxation, my train of thought kept me awake.

By the time I reached my stop on the train, I concluded the occurrence on the train was a microcosm of society. Society is made up of four separate ingredients. There is the sadist, the masochist, and the woman in-between. The rest of us are just part of the mindless herd of spectators. We are all moving together at the same speed, going the same direction. We are all antagonists, we are all the provoked and tempted rehabilitated soul, and we are all the voice of consciousness mediating and rationalizing our existence. Together we are all just passengers, passing through station after station watching life pass by, helpless and tired.