C Train

It's interesting to observe how New Yorkers respond to disturbances in public places, particularly in an area as small and confined as a subway car.

This morning I walked in to a hail of expletives. Verbal abuses of a sexual nature bounced back and forth between two clearly belligerent individuals, a man and a woman sitting opposite each other, both occupying the entirety of their benches...the two-seater kind so small that all you can do is pray your bench buddy is wearing deodorant, has decent spacial awareness and the courtesy not to splay their newspaper too wide. From the sound of them, they weren't likely to adhere to any of this. I ventured to the opposite side of the car.

The brawl was too big to feign indifference for long. Strangers, hovering uncomfortably over "f*cks" pronounced with malice and perfect diction, were eventually roped in. I watched the faces of men, stone silent and pensive, surely contemplating the likelihood of having to step in should hard words turn to harder fists. One man whipped out his phone and began to record the ordeal. He actually had the nerve to ask a woman in front of him who was obstructing his view to step to the side. I was with him at first, thinking he was doing this to dissuade the man from following through on his mounting threats. But as his head turned back to the expectant crowd, eyes full of thrill not duty, he lost me. Just another instigator who'd be of no use should something go down.

Others turned squittish and dismissive, hiding behind books and headphones. The ruddy nosed boy in front of me clutched the pole with his left hand and a paperback copy of Kurt Vonneguts "Slaughterhouse-5" with his right. As the train whipped and the hail continued, his fingers turned red with desperation. He looked up at Broadway-Nassau, surely calculating how many more stops he'd have to keep this up. A prim lady in winter white booties and perfectly hemmed jeans hugged her boyfriend close, burying her head in the scent of his chest. He hugged her with assurance, his eyes expressing another emotion.

At Chambers Street the cops arrived. "Excuse me, excuse me," one bellowed as he made his way toward the disturbance. I searched his face for fear and found some. As they approached, a tall, authoritative citizen who had played moderator stepped aside. The two were surrounded. "What's the problem here?," the cop boomed. And that's when you realize that this is really happening. You live in a crazy city where the best or the worst can happen and there you are, possibly smack dab in the middle of the latter. You imagine the worst, that you might witness the cops beat down these people. You quickly craft together an exit strategy. You imagine what's going through their heads. Did they ever think taking their argument public would blow to these proportions?

Luckily, none of this happened. The crazies piped down, giving the crowd the chance to release its tension in a truly New York fashion. Tisks, teeth sucking and the sound of fabric adjusting to accommodate crossed arms went through the car like a wave. An old lady told the cops how to do their job yelling, "get them OUT of here." A young woman backed her up with, "Yeah, I won't be late to work for THIS".

And that was the extent of it. We all returned to our lives, turning up our music, shifting our weight from left to right, angling for the emptied seats.