“You Ain’t Gonna Stab Me Son”

By Lorraine Kearney

My morning commute is always a struggle. Walking up Wall Street to the 4 train against the flow of people as they rush to their jobs; while I try to fight my way through a sea of men and women in business suits.

Last Monday morning, I reached the subway platform, I pulled out my Kindle and bowed my head to read. When I entered the train I thought it was the luck of the Irish to find an open seat across from the door.

Even though I was the first person from the platform onto the train, I rushed to beat the imaginary crowd. Upon sitting down I accidentally kicked the foot of the gentleman sitting next to me.  The man’s eyes  burned into my soul as if he were wishing death upon me.

I quickly apologized in a tone that told him “I was sorry, but don’t you dare look at me like that!”

Intimidated, I looked down with one eye on my Kindle and the other eye observing him. He was dressed in clean baggy jeans, bomber jacket, a spider web tattoo marked his left hand near his thumb. His head
was smooth and his face was freshly shaven.

Unfortunately, a quick glance around the car let me known there was no more open seats. I had a long ride until I got to my stop in the Bronx so I vowed to sit tight and not make eye contact with him again.

Next stop Fulton Street, I was able to observe him as he sat forward leaning his elbows on
his knees with his head in his hands. It was clear that something was on his mind. A middle-aged African American homeless man that regularly does his skit on the train entered.

The sight of him made me smile because he likes to make people laugh in the morning by cracking jokes. He told a story of how he used to live in a rent controlled apartment with his wife and father-in-law. Last year, his father-in-law died and within a couple of months his wife got ill and passed away. Faced with so much heartache, he overlooked the fact that the apartment was in his father-in-law’s name and when the housing department came they evicted him.

I had heard his story more than once so I continued to read. Then out of nowhere, the man next to me was yelling “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” to the homeless man. The homeless man was unfazed. He took one look at the man and continued his life story: he was a respectable man who has never been to jail.

One by one people’s heads began to rise, while their eyes searched the crowd trying to make contact with someone who knew what was going on. Unsettled, I tried to read, hoping the angry man would get off at the next stop.

As the doors closed at Union Square he continued to scream at the homeless man. A man on my right, standing and holding the pole reached out to give the man $1. The homeless man walked towards the cash politely thanking him for his generosity. The angry man spat at him as he passed, and then, all of a sudden he leaped to his feet and pulled an object from underneath his jacket. Screams echoed in my ears that it was a gun and then a knife. I jumped from my seat.

The angry guy chased the homeless man to the other side of the carriage, brandishing a knife. Obviously this was not his first rodeo. The homeless man ran for the emergency button, pressing it hard, and then exited through the carriage doors at the rear of the train.

The tension in the car was easing since one of the guys was gone. Women released the clutch of their handbags and a man pulled a newspaper up over his eyes. The angry man walked back down the car with a 6-inch hunting knife clenched in his left hand.

There was no way I was going to sit in the same seat, I walked passed him towards the opposite side of the bench to where I was originally sitting. He stopped, looked around, saw the empty seat next to me and sat down. The knife still in his hand was now next to my leg. I could feel the rush of blood around my body, my hands began to tremble, and I frantically tried to think of an exit strategy.

With a sweeping look around the carriage the man decided to discard the weapon under our seat, just as the homeless man reentered. Feeling brave knowing that the police were on their way the homeless man began yelling, “You ain’t gonna stab me son.”  The angry man lunged forward, extending his arm in a stabbing motion and chased the homeless man into the other carriage once again.

The sight of the lights of Grand Central were coming into view were like a gift from God in just a few moments the doors would open and I could escape. Anxiously standing by the door, tapping my foot off the ground, the doors remained shut even after we stopped.

Fear was creeping back into my veins as reality struck. I was locked in this carriage with a crazy man wielding a knife. My heart thumping, my body tingling and panic began to rise. I wanted to sprint as fast as humanly possible, but there was nowhere to go.

The angry man was looking at the ceiling laughing out loud saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He knew the doors were locked because the cops were coming for him. Then, with knife in hand he ran for the door that leads between carriages and jumped over the metal bars onto the platform. He had vanished into the crowd.

Dumbfounded, my fellow commuters and I began to take turns telling our version of the what had just happened. No one spoke over one another. The silence of the listening ears was a newfound respect we had developed for each other. As new passengers entered, their faces were puzzled as to why would a group of people that all look so different from each other be chatting like old friends on public transportation.

We didn’t care of the curious looks that we were receiving, nor did a standing passenger stop our flow of conversation, we just cranked our necks so that we could talk around them. One by one they all exited the train at the respective stops. With each person leaving we wished one another a good day all knowing that when they exited we would never see each other again and the connection we felt would be lost.

By the time I reached my stop I was left alone with a new bunch of strangers that were unaware to the of the events that had transpired or the emotional connection that occurred between me and the people that had sat in their seats before them. In a way, I felt alone leaving the train as the bonds that had formed were quickly lost and the bravery I had felt with the others faded.

My hands began to shake and tears filled my eyes. I fumbled in my bag for my phone and with watery eyes I dial my sister. The soothing sound of her voice and her genuine concern help me relax. Life was returning back to normal.