I don’t work the second shift. My workday began around 9:30 a.m. as usual, but I had a couple of deadlines hanging over me, so instead of catching my usual rush-hour train home, I find myself amongst the bleary-eyed on the midnight D Train. The warning bell chimes, the doors close, and we roll on toward downtown and Brooklyn.
I snag my favorite seat, back to the wall and directly next to the door. I like having the pole right there for stability, and also because I once read an article about using the pole for leverage in certain defensive moves in case things get sketchy. So far I’ve never needed to deploy any defensive moves on the subway, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to perform them if I have to, but it’s a comfort to know the pole is available if anything goes down.
A quick survey of my fellow travelers reveals a mostly working-class vibe, some in the uniforms of their trade: food service, custodial, security, delivery, retail etc. Others wear the less formalized but still standard uniform of the middle-level office worker, i.e., comfortable shoes, skirts or slacks (not jeans) and shirts with collars and buttons. A few sport a more professional look, but there are no suits on this train. Anyone who wears a suit and works this late gets a voucher for a town car home. This train don’t carry no vouchers.
One of the more professional-looking passengers sits diagonally across from me, in the seat on the other side of the opposing doorway, next to the pole. Maybe she read the same article about subway self-defense that I did. She’s petite and pretty, but with a decidedly low-key, no-nonsense air about her. She wears a thin gold ankle bracelet that glints in the harsh fluorescent light. It catches my eye. I’m not the only one who notices.
A lanky dude sprawls across from her, wearing jeans and work boots and a canvas jacket with that fake sheepskin lining. He leans forward on the edge of his seat, his forearms on his thighs, and speaks to her in a low, resonant voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can tell that it’s directed at her. I can also tell that she doesn’t like it.
Her downcast eyes do their best to avoid his intrusive gaze, but her tight jaw and stiff shoulders shriek, “Go away!” He continues his monologue, either unaware of her unease, or perhaps turned on by it. She tries to ignore him, but he is clearly bothering her. At one point she responds, in a voice too soft for me to understand. She might be trying to discourage him in some way. She obviously doesn’t want him to continue. But whatever she's saying, it isn’t working. He leans even further forward into the open space between them and resumes his verbal assault.
I now lean forward on the edge of my seat, one hand on the pole, ready to lunge. I want so badly to do something, to leap to her rescue, to run off this dirtbag who keeps sniffing around where he isn’t wanted. It’s a primal thing, emanating from deep down in my lizard brain: Save the girl! But this is New York and there are unspoken rules about getting involved in other people’s business. There are lines you don’t cross, especially late at night on the subway. Besides, I’ve learned through clumsy experience not to assume that women need or even want my help. She’s an adult who can take care of herself. Better to let her find her own solution.
But it’s getting hard to watch.
The train rumbles up out of the tunnel and onto the lower level of the Manhattan Bridge. Normally this would be the highlight of the ride, where the claustrophobic darkness of the tunnel gives way to the glittering lower Manhattan skyline, framed by the Brooklyn Bridge, as it spans the East River with a kind of formidable grace. An inspiring sight on most evenings, but tonight it seems empty and false. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed the creepy tableau at the front end of the car.
The guy sitting across from me leans forward just like I do, his attention riveted on the unwanted suitor. Same with the guy in the nearby forward-facing seat, and the guy across from him, and the two guys behind them. There must be at least six of us poised for action, muscles tensed, jaws clenched, attention focused on the wolf in the sheepskin jacket. But nobody moves. A couple of them acknowledge my glance, but most keep their eyes fixed on the target. The situation has galvanized our lizard brains. We have formed into a cadre. Or maybe a mob.
The train rattles as we come off the bridge and descend back into the darkness of the tunnel. The next stop is DeKalb Avenue, where you can transfer to the BMT line. Maybe the woman with the ankle bracelet will get off there. But for now, the wolf in fake sheepskin still has her cornered, if only through sheer relentlessness. What does he think will happen? That she eventually succumbs to his advances and invites him back to her apartment for the night? Can he not perceive her revulsion and fear? Or is fear the whole point? I really want to smash his face.
The lights of the DeKalb station flicker past the windows. Brakes squeal and the train rocks slightly as it slows. The platform is nearly empty. We screech to a jerking halt, our car positioned toward the back end of the train. The woman with the ankle bracelet scans the platform. The bells chime and the doors open. She stands and strides out of the car, past her aggressor. He hardly seems to notice.
I watch through the open doors as she walks up the platform. Few things are certain in life, but the fact that you can never find a cop when you need one is all but guaranteed. Especially in Brooklyn after midnight. But I think I spot a transit cop standing in the middle of the platform, about thirty feet away. The woman with the ankle bracelet must see him too, because she’s making a beeline right for him. Fake sheepskin hasn’t moved. I can see the woman talking to the transit cop and then I hear the warning bell. The doors shudder. All I need to do is reach my left hand out about a foot and catch hold of the door to prevent it from closing. The door jolts against my grip, and then automatically slides back open.
The woman and the cop come back to our car and step inside. She points to the man in the fake sheepskin jacket and the transit cop takes him by the arm and stands him up. I can’t make out what he says but it’s a short and one-sided conversation. Fake sheepskin offers no resistance. Possibly not his first encounter with law enforcement. The warning bell chimes again, but I still have a tight hold on the door and I keep it open until the transit cop hustles fake sheepskin out onto the platform.
The woman with the ankle bracelet regains her seat. The bell chimes and the doors now close without hindrance. I look around the car. No one sits forward on the edge of his seat. No more tension, no more aggression. The natural order has been restored. I lean my head back against the subway map and close my eyes, thinking about a line I’d read in the Tao Te Ching. Something about how the sage takes action by doing nothing. Or maybe it’s all dumb luck. What are the odds of finding a transit cop right when you need one? Either way, I’m glad that the woman with the ankle bracelet found her own solution. I open my eyes and glance over at her. She seems at peace. I close my eyes again as the train lurches forward, bringing us all back where we belong.
