Trouble on the line

[muckefuck]

Last night on the el home, I was sitting in one of the ends and facing forward. The two forward-facing seats to my right and the one behind me were all singly occupied. I had my nose in book, so I hadn't paid a lick of attention to anyone around me. Suddenly, I heard behind me say in a sharp voice, "You look bald to me." I couldn't understand the response. He continued, "You're looking pretty bald to me. Did someone tear your hair out?" I began to wonder if the man behind me was mentally retarded, because I couldn't figure why else one would address a total stranger in this way. That soon became clear as the guy reacted defencively to the next response: "I'm allowed to look, ain't I? It's a free fuckin' country." At this point, I was dying to get a better view of the participants but I didn't want to turn around lest the guy start laying into me. Especially when he said, "You keep looking at me. Keep looking, I don't fucking care." I never understood a word the other man said, but the first man's statements only got more and more belligerent. "You're not from around here, are you? Where you from, Brazil?" The other man had stopped answering. Before the bully could escalate things, the train reached his stop and he got off. He was a thirtyish Caucasian with a short blond moustache and hard expression wearing a ball cap and a sweatshirt. I then turned around to look at the other guy, who turned out to be a middle-aged (or prematurely balding) Hispanic man with a thick black 'stache wearing a white shirt, dark tie, and slacks. I said some words of sympathy, about how the other guy seemed to be looking for a fight. A red-haired Russian matron in the seat ahead looked warily at us but didn't say anything.

As we paused at Berwyn, I saw a short, elderly lady being yelled at by an equally short, stocky, somewhat younger- and wilder-looking, brown-skinned man. Twice I saw him add emphasis to a point by pressing down on her arm in an agitated fashion. For a moment, I considered jumping through the doors and investigating. She didn't look frightened, just concerned, as she apparently made mollifying responses. When the train began moving I saw that there were plenty of other people on the platform only a few feet away and consoled myself that one of them might at least fetch and attendant of the man became violent. Then again, the fate of Kitty Genovese is never far from my mind. As I got out at the next stop, I pondered what I would've done if the belligerent behind me had assaulted the other man. I suppose run to the call button and told the conductor to stop the train and call the police. But what then?

Comments

[qwrrty.livejournal.com]

I often find myself wondering what to do in a situation like that.

A few weeks ago I was riding home from a late movie in Boston. It was after 11pm on a Friday or Saturday night, and as I passed through the bar district in Central Square the young drunks were out in force. Three of them were walking down the opposite side of the street. As they passed a middle-aged Indian couple coming the other way, one of them screamed an obscenity in the man's face. The others laughed and one of them yelled something about "going back to where you came from." The man and woman continued on their way, carefully acting as if nothing had happened and there was no one on the street.

I was furious. I was so angry I was shaking. I wanted nothing more than to turn across the street, pull in front of the frat boys and tell them that they owed those people an apology. But I didn't. For someone who used to cultivate such a belligerent persona online, I tend to avoid real-world confrontations -- unsurprisingly. And I was on my bike, wearing all of my silly-looking bike togs, including the stuffed alien strapped to my backpack. I did not feel like I cut a figure that commands authority.

Still, I'm a tall guy and reasonably strong (a fact I sometimes forget). And I know that bullies tend to operate on the assumption that no one is going to challenge them, since few people ever do. So I still wish I had stopped and told them off.

Kitty Genovese?

[foodpoisoningsf.livejournal.com]

That's a name I haven't heard for a while.

Re: Kitty Genovese?

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Yeah, it's interesting that danbearnyc mentions that the anniversary brought her case back into the media in NYC this year since I don't recall seeing a mention of her anywhere. I guess I had assumed that her murder was a national scandal but it may have been first and foremost a New York trauma.

... but what then ... ?

[aadroma.livejournal.com]

I hate scenarios like this. I really do. At the beginning of the month I witnessed an assault right in front of me, and all I could do was call the police and get some gauze from the bar right by the assault.

What DOES one do? I really wish I knew, because there are so many possible outcomes to one action. At one point does one intervene?

I, BTW, sadly had to Google the case of Ms. Genovese, and ... yeah, that's one of my fears. That my inaction would lead to something like that ...

[danbearnyc.livejournal.com]

This year marked the fortieth anniversary of the Kitty Genovese murder, so we heard quite a bit about her here in the New York papers, including an interview with her widowed girlfriend (who knew she was lesbian?!?).

I once and only once became involved in an incident on my local subway. The train was PACKED else I might not have had the courage. A hopelessly drunken Mexican day laborer was bothering a trannie (transvestite or transexual I didn't quite figure out) who was on her way to one the queer cha-cha palaces a few stops after mine. I managed to insert myself in between the two and sort of glower at the man, asking him to leave the lady alone. Miss Thing RAN and didn't say thank you, which, well, I understand, but I did have problems with the drunk until we reached the next station. It was the station before mine, but it was worth it to get away. I then ran to the token booth and reported the drunk; the token booth clerk wasn't impressed. I left my name and phone number for the police and walked home.

The only other time I had a problem on the train was shortly after I'd led the queer St Pat's Day parade in my neighborhood in Queens. All the little Irish pockets of New York have their own parades which all lead up to the main one up Fifth Avenue on the 17th, a pattern replicated by the queer pride parades. My neighborhood was the only Irish neighborhood which didn't have its own parade, so a member of the Lavender Green Alliance promptly organized a parade committee and then began inviting any and everyone to swell the ranks as the local Irish community was having nuthin' to do with it. By some good fortune I found myself leading the parade, serving as one of the anchors of a giant balloon arch. The usual protesters were there carrying placards, rosaries and praying. I thought nothing of it until two weeks later I was on my subway line and I felt eyes stairing at me. There, just opposite was this little old lady, tiny, with a blue rinse, staring, staring hard. We reached the subway stop, she stood up, glared at me and threw clenched teeth hissed "Sodomite!" To which I replied "Yes, every night."

If only...