Must be near midnight. He is sprawled opposite me on the subway. Hair plastered down. Goatee. Wearing the uniform - Nike stuff, yellow and orange shirt, pants with the crotch around his knees, phosphorescent sneakers. Legs open, big, sleepy looking guy, kind of a smile on his face, eye-stalking a woman sitting a few seats up. A couple with a cranky kid. Strewn papers. Someone had left their garbage-smelling half-eaten burger and fries on a seat.

Christie Station. The woman gets off. Two guys get on and sit together at one end of the car, early twenties I'd say, one in cargo pants and tee, and the other, tanned, in a tank top and shorts. Talking high and loud to each other about some movie and, with plastic spoons, eating ice cream from the same carton. I notice the guy opposite me staring at them with a different expression now, black you might say. Major shift of mood. He looks across at me and frowns, turns away to look at the couple again, studies the ads above me, mouthing the words, moving his legs around restlessly he stares at the two guys, then across at me. I look down at his sneakers, won't meet his gaze. He is trying to draw me in. I won't go there. He wants approval from me to start something. I won't get into it at all.

Ossington Station. The couple with the kid get off. No one gets on. He is staring at me. He wants to see his disgust reflected in my face. The guys are laughing now. They've finished the ice-cream. The one in the cargo pants says how cute someone in the movie was, and the other one thought someone else was hunkier. Then the one in shorts leans forward and looks down at us as if he had just discovered they were not alone, and then they lower their voices, and burst out laughing. All I hear is "Wouldn't kick him out of bed….". I watch the guy opposite. He sits up straight, leans forward, stares at me, challenging me, and he quickly turns towards them, glaring. Then he shouts.

"Keep your fuckin faggot talk to yourself."

His voice is like an alarm going off, mixed with the rattle of the subway. I look down the car. They are looking at each other, puzzled, maybe frightened, uncertain. He stands up, feet apart, swaying with the motion of the car, then abruptly sits down again. The two guys don't move, then get up together, and silently, and carefully pace the distance to the door.

Dufferin Station. The car clanks to a halt. The attacker times his move. He springs from his seat just as the one in shorts is stepping onto the platform. The second one's head swings around, his attention caught by the movement to his left, fear lighting his eyes. His head is grabbed, held by two hands, and his face is smashed, crunched, against the closing doors, with a choking cry, blood spurting, he crumples in pain. The attacker positions his foot to check the doors, and when they reopen, grips his victim by the shoulders, and shoves him, collapsing, out onto the platform. The doors slam shut. I see his friend bend over him. The platform hurtles away.

He stands for a while, walks to the end of the car, back again, sits down, sprawled, and stretches his legs out, looking over at me. He smiles. I meet his gaze for a moment, l stare at the blood-splatters moving down the glass. Then I fix my gaze on his sneakers.

Lansdowne Station. I get off.

 

© 2004 Steve Nugent - Contributor's Bio