jdg
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The Subway
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Feb 21 02:04 UTC 1992 |
What I remember most clearly about the moment was the mix of confusion
and terror in his face. Other things about that instant are hazy and
difficult to recall. But after many years, I still recall a face in a
rictus of panic. Most clearly I remember the wild despairing eyes, and
a mouth so strangulated that it couldn't form words.
He was kneeling over a body. The body lay face down in a pool of thick
blood that seemed like oil on concrete in the odd fluorescent lighting
in the subway station. He was screaming, and waving a pistol in the
air.
We were returning to Brooklyn from a day in the city. I no longer
remember exactly what we were doing there, my great aunt Minnie, my
cousin Natalie, and I. We might have spent part of the day at one or
two museums, but more likely we visited with other relatives who live in
Manhattan. These are the things my cousin and aunt would do with out of
town relatives like me. What matters is that we were returning on the D
train from Manhattan.
If you've ever travelled by subway in major cities around the world, you
know pretty much how it operates. When the train comes to a station, it
stops, opens its doors, people get on and off, the train closes its
doors, and it moves on. I remember the first stop in Brooklyn as being
distinctly different.
The train stopped and opened its doors, as you would expect. But then,
I noticed something was going wrong. The train didn't close its doors.
No one seemed to be getting on or off, and the station appeared to be
empty. Then, I saw someone running along the station platform.
Thinking that there might be some problem with the train, I got out of
my seat and went to a doorway to see what was up.
Ten feet away from me, on the platform was the little scene I mentioned.
Two men, or more likely, one man and one corpse. From where I stood, in
the doorway, I couldn't see the face on the body. The head was turned
away, towards the scummy tile and advertisement posters that long ago
had been obscured by spray paint. I stood and stared.
And then I noticed the screaming, coming from the gunman. It wasn't
very loud, else I wouldn't have walked up to the doorway, at least, not
so nonchalantly. The screaming was completely unintelligible. It was a
bellowing wail of human terror like I'd never heard before, nor since.
It was that strange sound that stirred me from my open mouthed staring
and moved me away from the doorway, back into the subway car.
My cousin, aunt, and I moved into relative safety by walking inside the
train to seats a few cars away. We sat down, and I started shaking.
Eventually, the train doors closed and the train moved on to the next
station. We got off at our stop.
We get so inured to violence, don't we? We see so much of it in the
news, and so much of it created for us by Hollywood, that we think we're
invincible to it. Yet when some really horrific in-your-face thing
actually happens, we're unprepared for it. Should we run away? Scream?
Take notes? Weird thing is, while we're watching it, that's what we
think. Take it from me.
I watched the news that night and read the papers the next day but I
never found out what happened, nor why. Perhaps in New York this kind
of thing is an everyday occurrence. Perhaps what I saw isn't what
happened. Perceptions that day may only have been reflections of
reality. I can't recall whether or not the waving gun was a revolver or
an automatic, but I still remember that it was cold, blue steel.
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