I stood on the ACE platform of the West 4th subway stop in a daze of almost post-coital exhaustion. My breaths taken in the deep and hungry cadence one uses after rolling off some sweaty sexual exercise, minus the associated endorphin-laced glow.
The only luminous quality around me was the kind that comes after a six-pack of beer and three hours of aggressive drumming.
The band mates and I followed our spirited practice session with a stop at my favorite vegan eatery before parting ways to different train stations. While the food greatly satisfied my taste buds, it did little to quench the thirst of my body's cells. I wanted nothing more then to get home and relax with a tall glass of water, but the trains were not cooperating.
A growing conglomeration of bitchy New Yorkers stood impatiently around me as we all awaited the arrival of a Brooklyn-bound train. The station was filled with the huffing and puffing of frustrated complaints. Strangely enough, the complaining didn't cause the train to arrive any faster.
Most everyone around me ignored the insane gentleman standing by the edge of the platform, but I studied his every move.
Every few moments, he would retrieve a different scrap of paper from his pocket and carefully unfold it. Some appeared to be random advertisements, but most seemed to be placemats from various fast food restaurants. The reverse side of the placemats featured intricate hand-rendered maps giving topographic and directional information about imaginary locations.
He would hold the maps up as if to display them in some imagined spotlight. He would then begin to mutter under his breath about non-existent subway stops while punctuating his thoughts with racial slurs.
My train arrived before I could learn anything more of his maps. He stayed on the platform, lecturing some imaginary student as we pulled away into the tunnels.
At the next stop, two ruffians boarded our train. One was black, taller, and far more drug influenced then his Puerto Rican/Italian/Black companion. The taller one stomped over and claimed a seat next to the door. His chum stood over him as they surveyed the other travelers with gruff disregard.
For the purposes of our story, we shall refer to the black man as "The Thug" and his friend as "The Sidekick".
Almost immediately, the Thug tried to initiate trouble by questioning the sexuality of an innocent Latino gentleman standing by the door. He speculated about his cock-sucking abilities and fetishes while constantly referring to his own member in a threatening manner. The Latino just laughed in a valiant attempt to brush off the aggression.
Next, the Thug expressed his desire to put his gun between the eyes of the young Latino, and expanded on the details of that action while spilling all the expletives required to impart a tone of credible danger to the threats. The Latino attempted to ignore him.
A stop or two later, the Thug turned his scorn towards a middle-aged African man and initiated a shouting match across the train. His "motherfucker"s were met with surprisingly aggressive resistance by the African. He possessed no fear of the Thug, and openly questioned what the Thug could do to him.
This incited the Thug to stand up and dance through the usual ghetto postures. Nose to nose, arms wide as to invite attack, fingers stuck in the face in the shape of a gun.
The African did not back down and escalated the situation by yelling louder at the Thug.
A black man tried to play peacemaker by invoking the we're all brothers card, but apparently that was trumped by the King of Assholes card that Thug carried in his front pocket.
Some faceless people on the train voiced their support of the African, with shouts of "Go ahead, we got your back".
Eventually the Thug sat back down, but the argument did not cease, and before long he was up again. After a few minutes of this dance, it became clear that the situation was not diffusing and the riders began to clear a makeshift boxing ring in the middle of the train.
The Peacemaker's pleas for calm were ignored as the Thug's drug-induced belligerence constantly clashed against the African's unflinching opposition.
As the train neared the next stop, the argument flared up once again. This time, the African called the Thug out and stood ready for battle. All the white people rushed away, fearing collateral damage from the inevitable combat. The Thug sat back on his heels, turned to his companion, and repeated several times "give me my shit".
The doors of the subway opened at the Hoyt/Schermerhorn stop and most of the white people rushed off the train.
Sidekick began fishing around and pulled homemade dagger from his back pocket. He casually placed it in the hand of the Thug and everyone on the train suddenly sensed the imminent danger, but the shiv dropped out of his hand before he could grip it and it fell on the floor amongst the seated riders. An older black man immediately put his foot on top of it and slid it under the seat and out of easy reach.
As Thug started looking franticly for his weapon, I stepped off the train.
I wasn't trying to avoid being in the middle of the conflict, I just didn't want to miss my stop.
I walked all the way home, comfortable in the knowledge that I would not be accidentally stabbed in the middle of a subway car brawl. And while this knowledge did grant me some illusion of personal safety, I probably would have traded that comfort for the satisfaction of participating in a straphanger's vigilante beat-down.
