A Disturbing Episode on the Subway

I was riding the subway today, when a woman stepped into the train and asked me if it was going uptown. It was.

She started complaining to me about her day. About how it possibly could not go any worse. About the fact that nobody would read her poetry. That nothing ever went right.

I told her tomorrow was a new day. And saw her eyes roll. Wow, taste of my own medicine.

I asked her what could be done to make her day better. I had just returned from Trader Joe’s and mentally did an inventory to see if I could give her anything. I hadn’t bought cookies, so I couldn’t offer her one of those. Spinach, no, granola, no, cereal, no. D’oh.

She said “Believe me, if you want to know, you’d have to call the police.”

At this point I couldn’t tell if she was disturbed or not, based on her appearance. She was middle aged, with frazzled brown hair, eclectically dressed, but many New Yorkers were. I began to think that maybe she had a difficult background.

“Nothing goes right for me. Everything is wrong. No one will ever listen to me,” she said.

Hmm.  Earlier this evening, on another subway, I had been reading a book about conversations and finished the chapter on listening. No joke. I guess this is my chance to practice.

“When was the last time something went right for you? What was it?” I asked, trying to get her to focus on something positive while I mentally ran through potential platitudes to offer.

She mentioned her kids as the only redeeming thing in her life. She also started complaining about how no literary agent would look at her poetry, how no one would treat her with kindness, and how some man would tear her down constantly about her life. She described him using several expletives.

Then she said she wanted to sit down. I motioned to an empty seat, but she said she was too fat to sit down. (Though she wasn’t). “Nothing goes right for me, ever.”

All of a sudden, a tall old man with a yarmulke storms into our conversation and starts yelling at the top of his lungs. Something about how the woman has no business talking to me, and talking badly about him.

They seem to know each other, and he just starts berating her as she backs into a corner and yells back.

“She’s the only one that will listen to me! She’s the only one who cares!” she screams, as she shoots me this incredibly lonely look with her tired eyes, like an “I told you so.” I won’t forget that look anytime soon.

I try to intervene at this point, telling the man it’s okay for her to talk to me, but he ignores me. I don’t know if I should step into the space between them. I reach out to touch his arm, but rescind it. He moves in closer on her and the entire subway car is staring at this scene. “Why the hell isn’t anyone else trying to intervene?” I think. I figure it’s because the fight is still verbal, and can only elicit intervention if it becomes physical.

Several others around us shoot me glances as I step forward to intervene again. They also shake their heads, as if saying “Don’t do it.” So I don’t. I stand there, tense, with my groceries, as I get to my stop. Should I get off, or should I stay here and… do something?

I get off, I touch her arm, hoping it brings her reassurance. I excuse myself of this episode.

I stumble onto the street, feeling shaken up, and with a million thoughts. I hope she’ll be okay. I hope she won’t get hurt. I hope she will feel joy in the coming week.

I think,  there must be so many lonely people in this city of 8 million. We all sit or stand together silent in a train, with thought bubbles full of struggle, torment, joy, and wonder. We’re encapsulated in our own invisible boxes, mentally separating us from the strangers a few inches away. When a day comes such as today, when those boxes open and interaction occurs, it comes as such a surprise. It catches you off guard. Talking to another human being feels… foreign, if only for a moment. That’s New York for you. That’s this world for you.