I'm not sure where she got the chain. Her pockets didn't appear large enough to hold such a long and heavy weapon. You'd think I'd be thinking other things while watching her whip the chain into the man's chest, but for some reason I was much more interested in spacial abnormalities.
Every single fight I've seen in New York City has involved women. And these fights almost always occur on our fair subway system. What is it about being squished into a steaming hot, small, and cramped compartment that sets these women off?
Last Friday, as I made my way back up to the Upper West Side after a week ofsurfing the web creating wonderful advertising campaigns for high-paying clients, I found myself on the 2 express train. I make a point of standing on subway cars in order for women, old people, sleeping homeless people, etc... to take the seats. More often, I'll cozy up to the pole in the opposing vestibule, Blackberry in hand and attempting to break my high-score on BrickBreaker. On this particular afternoon, there was an incredibly attractive woman standing across from me.
It should be noted that I don't stare at women. I glance, sure. But never stare. Also, I've perfected the art of making it appear I'm looking at something else (which station we've arrived at, the Whole Foods Ad above her head, etc...) while carefully taking in the details of her face. On this particular evening, I was greeted with a half smile. Sort of the "Here goes another trip in this tin can. You look half-way sane, I'll connect with you" look. At least, that's how I took it.
A shorter woman in her mid-forties and listening to her iPod, got on the train at 72nd Street. She pushed without saying excuse me and may or may not have stepped on a few toes. That's bad train etiquette. I laughed it off as she brushed past me. However, a girl sitting in one of the chairs was not so civil.
"That bitch think she owns the mutherfuckin' subway system?" she said, loud enough for the entire train to hear. "Because I paid my $2 to get on this train, and I expect to be treated like a goddamn civilian."
The woman with the headphones didn't hear her. She was lost in, what I can only guess, was a melodic trance spurred on by Christopher Cross. The angered woman was not done.
"Bitch, don't pretend like you can't hear me. Shit, I'll scream so loud that mutherfuckin' Satan can hear me."
I could feel the tension rising quickly in the car. The tingle at the back of my neck told me that all was not well. Things were about to go south. The angered woman got up from her seat with little resistance from her friend sitting next to her. She got in the rude woman's face and started pointing her finger.
Let me take a moment and help those of you who are having trouble following this.
Me: Quietly playing Brickbreaker on my Blackberry and hoping that the cute girl standing across from me sees how incredibly awesome my jeans make my ass look.
Cute Girl: Really cute. Enough that I check the missed connections section of Craigslist everyday to see if she's written about me.
Angry Woman: May or may not have had her feet stepped on. Currently waving her finger in Rude Woman's face.
Rude Woman: Probably needs a lesson in subway etiquette. She's listening to her iPod and making funny faces at Angry Woman's finger waving.
The punch came so fast that I spent five seconds trying to figure out who threw it. I know that Rude Woman's glasses fell off.
I had a decision to make. I could stay where I was and try to finally crack 10,000 points, or I could intervene and surely impress Cute Girl with my dashing skills of conflict management.
My arms made my decision for me as I felt them pause my game and tuck my phone into my coat pocket. I tried to grab Angry Woman off of Rude Woman, hoping that Cute Girl would see my budging bicep muscles through the three layers of clothing I was wearing. I avoided the punching and the hitting so as not to have my hair messed up. Other people jumped in to split it up. And as the train pulled into 96th Street, there were already cops on the platform.
In the fray, I managed to smile at Cute Girl one last time before exiting the train and running ... quickly ... for the exit of the station.
A similar situation, and the one involving the chain, occurred last summer as several of my friends and I made our way out to Shea for a Mets game. I also think about the video or those teen-aged girls attacking that man on the subway last year. What is it about being 20 feet underground, in a hot and smelly car that sets these women off? From now on, I'm hanging out in the subway car with the crazy guy who laughs at pigeons. At least I know where he's coming from.
Last Friday, as I made my way back up to the Upper West Side after a week of
It should be noted that I don't stare at women. I glance, sure. But never stare. Also, I've perfected the art of making it appear I'm looking at something else (which station we've arrived at, the Whole Foods Ad above her head, etc...) while carefully taking in the details of her face. On this particular evening, I was greeted with a half smile. Sort of the "Here goes another trip in this tin can. You look half-way sane, I'll connect with you" look. At least, that's how I took it.
A shorter woman in her mid-forties and listening to her iPod, got on the train at 72nd Street. She pushed without saying excuse me and may or may not have stepped on a few toes. That's bad train etiquette. I laughed it off as she brushed past me. However, a girl sitting in one of the chairs was not so civil.
"That bitch think she owns the mutherfuckin' subway system?" she said, loud enough for the entire train to hear. "Because I paid my $2 to get on this train, and I expect to be treated like a goddamn civilian."
The woman with the headphones didn't hear her. She was lost in, what I can only guess, was a melodic trance spurred on by Christopher Cross. The angered woman was not done.
"Bitch, don't pretend like you can't hear me. Shit, I'll scream so loud that mutherfuckin' Satan can hear me."
I could feel the tension rising quickly in the car. The tingle at the back of my neck told me that all was not well. Things were about to go south. The angered woman got up from her seat with little resistance from her friend sitting next to her. She got in the rude woman's face and started pointing her finger.
Let me take a moment and help those of you who are having trouble following this.
Me: Quietly playing Brickbreaker on my Blackberry and hoping that the cute girl standing across from me sees how incredibly awesome my jeans make my ass look.
Cute Girl: Really cute. Enough that I check the missed connections section of Craigslist everyday to see if she's written about me.
Angry Woman: May or may not have had her feet stepped on. Currently waving her finger in Rude Woman's face.
Rude Woman: Probably needs a lesson in subway etiquette. She's listening to her iPod and making funny faces at Angry Woman's finger waving.
The punch came so fast that I spent five seconds trying to figure out who threw it. I know that Rude Woman's glasses fell off.
I had a decision to make. I could stay where I was and try to finally crack 10,000 points, or I could intervene and surely impress Cute Girl with my dashing skills of conflict management.
My arms made my decision for me as I felt them pause my game and tuck my phone into my coat pocket. I tried to grab Angry Woman off of Rude Woman, hoping that Cute Girl would see my budging bicep muscles through the three layers of clothing I was wearing. I avoided the punching and the hitting so as not to have my hair messed up. Other people jumped in to split it up. And as the train pulled into 96th Street, there were already cops on the platform.
In the fray, I managed to smile at Cute Girl one last time before exiting the train and running ... quickly ... for the exit of the station.
A similar situation, and the one involving the chain, occurred last summer as several of my friends and I made our way out to Shea for a Mets game. I also think about the video or those teen-aged girls attacking that man on the subway last year. What is it about being 20 feet underground, in a hot and smelly car that sets these women off? From now on, I'm hanging out in the subway car with the crazy guy who laughs at pigeons. At least I know where he's coming from.
