Make My Day
So, I'm on my way home on the red line, and there's this dude who looks disarmingly like Don Imus. Seriously. And he's drunk. I mean, drunk like drunks get drunk. The car is medium-full, it's around half-past seven.
I'm reading my magazine, and look up and notice that all the sudden there are about ten seats either side of this bum free. So that piqued my interest. The way people are about getting a seat on the T, you have to be very special indeed to get ten or twenty to yourself.
And then I notice this flow of refugees from the front section of the car. This young woman comes up next to me, from over in his section (there's a row of young women still in the seats across from him), and she's looking all nervous. And she's all huddled up so close to me, it's like she wants me to protect her. I look over, and it looks like the drunk's just busy being a belligerent drunk, no need for alarm. I'm like, "don't worry, everything's fine."
She bolts off at Harvard, and as soon as the doors close, he starts putting on a show. Swinging his backpack around and threatening to hit some women—who still haven't moved—with it. People down the car are getting more interested in what's going on. Nervous looks are being exchanged.
Next, he takes his dick out and starts pissing himself. Always guaranteed to charm the ladies. That finally convinces them it might be time to politely take their leave of him, even if it means giving up those coveted seats.
So now he's got the front third of the car to himself. Who knew all you had to do was piss yourself? He should be happy, right? But he's not. He puts his dick away and gets up, stumbling towards another young woman who's standing next to me. He looks like he's about to lunge at her, so I step up and give him a good shove back, and keep my arm out to warn him not to come any closer.
Of course, this then cleared another section of the car, as some commuters obviously interpreted my action as an escalation. But it's not like I went all Samuel L. Jackson on his ass: "And I shall strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee!" Pop!
I mean, I choose my battles. I don't go around shoving people indiscriminately, or at all, as a general rule. But this guy needed to be checked before he hurt someone. And I felt like he could be pretty easily contained, without doing him, me, or anyone else any harm. A little reminder of limits is sometimes in order. I mean, you can pee on yourself and you can pee on the T, but don't pee on yourself on the T. And don't pee on me. And no lunging at the ladies.
It took him a minute to process what had just happened. And what might be about to. Funny thing is, it didn't seem to have occurred to him before that terrorizing your fellow commuters on their way home, ranting at them, calling them names, threatening them with bodily harm—and bodily fluids— might result in getting your ass kicked up and down the car and then tossed out on your ear at the next stop.
I didn't say anything, just stood my ground and stared at him with my hand still raised in warning, feeling pretty damn butch, watching his epiphany in process. He went with excruciating slowness from bewildered to affronted to outraged, as if he was the offended party.
But I could tell he was doing the math, too. There were about five other guys now standing behind me, all bigger than me, and I was bigger than him, and nobody was looking too sympathetic to his plight.
It was like Enrique Iglesias versus Menudo.
Still, we were at a bit of an impasse. Lucky for him one of the guys behind me stepped up. He was an expert in conflict resolution or hostage negotiations, or something, because he starts cooing, "nobody wants any trouble, we all just want to get home..."
The thing of it was, I had it under control. I was totally calm, cool and collected. I mean, I got the feeling Conflict Resolution Guy was cooing as much to me as he was to the drunk. Like he was breaking up a fight. But I'm a lover, not a fighter. My work was pretty much done. The irony of it was, had the other guy not stepped up the drunk might not have felt emboldened to lash out one last time—this time at me, though to no effect.
After taking a half-hearted swing at me to demonstrate to those assembled that he had not been utterly emasculated, he stumbled off to his end of the car just as we were pulling into Porter Square, where he got off (and into the next car—I saw him again at Davis).
People are funny. From Porter to Davis, nobody said anything, and everyone avoided eye contact, except the conflict-resolution expert and the young woman who'd nearly been attacked, and on whose behalf I had gallantly intervened. They got off together. I was like, what just happened? Shouldn't I get the girl?
Who says chivalry is dead?
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Man, more people need to take a stand like yours on the T, there's always something happening that noboday speaks up about, me, I'm guilty of keeping to myself.
Sounds like the same guy I saw at S. Station last night, at first I felt bad when he dropped his Listering bottle, then he was just belligerent towards the T guard.
Keep up the good work, Mike.
john.
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Don't do anything to mess up that handsome face Mike!
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I wanted to share an exchange about this post in the comments to the link from universal hub .
First this one:
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I just have to say thank you for looking out for your fellow passengers! I have been targeted on the T several times over the years by drunks or just pervs, and I have never had anyone do anything but stare. The woman you gallantly rescued (heh) was likely too freaked out by the whole scene to say anything to you - so on behalf of her, thanks. It's nice to know that someone will step in rather than watch a woman be harassed.
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