Right Between The Eyes.

After work on Monday, I wasn't too tired and decided it was time to find my summer hat. I want something big and ridiculous. Mostly to make sure strangers have no interest in talking to me (shouldn't be hard if they are the proud owner of a vagina), and also because I'm ready to tap into my Latino heritage. Not.

I already see one I would wear every day.

I was standing on the train, in front of the doors, waiting for my stop, listening to OJ Da Juiceman. If you've ever taken a ride on any public train, you know how obnoxious and crazy the people can be so if you're tired from a long day at work, it's better to just pop in those earbuds and lose yourself in your chosen soundscape. I've often thought about how many times I've fucked myself over because of my headphones drowning out the conductors instructions about changed train lines. And how I hope nobody ever gets on the train firing an Uzi because the Gucci Mane/Juicy J songs I often listen to have every kind of gunshot somehow worked into the beat. I don't want the real ones to blend in.

On Monday, nothing seemed to be different. As the train pulled up to my stop (West 4th on an uptown C train) I turned around and patiently waited for the doors to open. I could see 2 people on the other side waiting to get on. One was a girl who looked like she was good at college and the other was a chubby black dude wearing a tucked in button down shirt and although I couldn't hear anything he was saying (because of the doors and my headphones) it quickly became apparent that he was upset about something. I could see his mouth moving as if he were yelling and his double chin a-jigglin'. I couldn't hear a thing.

Every person over the age of 11 (this might be generous) should understand that when you are outside of a train (or pretty much anything that you're trying to get into), it is polite to let everyone exit before you make your way inside (this includes hookers, obviously). Imagine if everyone in New York ignored this. It'd be impossible to get off the train. I'd probably still be wedged into some fat lady from New Jersey's fupa rolls, complaining about how lonely and short I am. Or imagine if you hailed a taxi that was pulling up to drop someone off and you just opened the door and got in, not letting the passengers get out. I can't imagine that's the best way to make new friends. (I've seriously wondered what age I will be when I start walking around SoHo waiting for taxis filled with models to pull up, just so I can open the door and barge in and hope one of them not only believes in Love At First Sight but also believes in Love At First Sight With A Little Racially Ambiguous Dude Who Complains All The Fucking Time And Can Barely Touch The Net On A Basketball Rim Even When He Takes A Running Start. The odds are against me.) 

As the doors opened, this chubby angry black dude (let's call him Mean Cee-Lo) stormed onto the train, yelling something I couldn't hear thanks to Mr. Juiceman, and tried to push me (and whoever was behind me patiently waiting to exit) back. For some reason, it instantly pissed me off so I shoved back and pushed him off the train. At this point I could tell he was still yelling and he grabbed the sleeve of my hoodie. I yanked and kept on walking towards the exit but quickly noticed he was not going to let go any time soon. He then tried to grab me and as I leaned all my weight towards the exit, I decided to shift it all back in the other direction as quickly as possible. I let my right fist steer my body. It was all a reaction. By the time I noticed what was going on my fist was about an inch from Mean Cee-Lo's lower forehead. 

Right where his fingers are touching. That's where my fist made a crash landing. I was aiming for his nose but you can't have everything you want in life.

I don't fight. Sure I talk an unbelievable amount of shit, especially if I'm hanging out with some big friends and I have a few too many Cosmos, but I never let it get out of hand. Especially not on a train platform where any number of crazy accidents can occur. And let's face it, I'm not ashamed to run. I've often said if they ever sent me to war, I'd spend all day playing dead or hiding. That, of course, would fill time in between my epic masturbatory sessions.

When my fist landed I realized what was going on. Mean Cee-Lo was obviously a bit dazed and plenty shocked. I don't think he expected some little bitchass Bruno Mars lookin' dude to have the balls to throw a punch. But it happened. As he tried to regain his footing, I backed away and squared up, ready to defend myself. He gained his balance, looked at me and completely surprised me.

He turned and got on the train, just as the doors closed. As I walked away, adjusting my stretched out hoodie and trying to make sense of what just happened, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. It didn't seem like many people did. Or maybe New Yorkers are so used to seeing bullshit they've grown numb to it all. 1 year and 6 months in New York. That's how long it took me to punch somebody in the face. I'm glad I did it but I hope it never happens again. Next time, I'm sure I'll find myself on the track, in 9 different pieces, one more pathetic and dead as the next.

As the train passed I looked inside the car I had been riding and saw Mean Cee-Lo screaming. I have to believe that I gave him something new to yell about.

I never found a hat.