In Times Of Crisis, You Can Count On Me (To Be A Big Pussy)

March 11th, 2007 Posted in Anecdotes, Blog Posts

I didn’t know it when I woke up Friday morning, but in less than an hour I would be tested.

Tested as a man. A real man. The kind with chest hair, muscles and an actual chin. The kind of man that women look at and think, “You better believe I’d let him drill me.” It was to be a morning where, in the space of a single split-second moment, my character would be called daringly into question. An “Oh my Christ look, a woman’s screaming from the top floor of a burning building, WHAT TO YOU DO, HOTSHOT?” moment. A “You’re walking home from a game of catch at the park when you notice a baby flying off the balcony of Eric Clapton’s house, WHAT DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING DO, SPORTS FAN?” moment. (And no, I’m not sure who specifically is yelling at you so angrily in either of these scenarios, or why they can’t get off your back and catch the damn baby themselves. Probably just some asshole.)

This was also to be a morning where, in addition to measuring my instinct for cool-headed bravery in the face of crisis, I would learn that I don’t have any. It turns out I’m sort of a huge pussy, and that if given one of the above scenarios, I’d stare blankly in confusion while women fell, burning and shrieking, from the windows of fire-engulfed condos, or look on with ineffectual concern while Eric Clapton’s baby picked up speed. Yes, surprising nobody but myself, it turns out I’m the sort of can-do hero who, when called to action, will immediately freeze like a tender-eyed fawn in terrified brain-lock. If placed in a highly metaphysical conundrum involving a collapsing bridge, a loved one hanging off of either side and the choice of saving only one, I would in all likelihood cause both to plummet, cursing me, to their deaths, having opted to “hang back a little and mull over my choices” until the time for action had long since sprinted past.

I am, it seems, incapable of reflexive bravery. This is never good news to hear. And it certainly doesn’t make the medicine go down any easier if you’re reaching this epiphany while an old man buries his face, deeply and lovingly, into your crotch. Let me explain that.

Figure 1: Subway Car Layout

Here’s how it went down. On the left is me, reading a book and minding my own business. Second from the left, another commuter, also reading and minding his own business. Further down the subway car bench is an old man and a young boy, presumably either his grandson or a child he’s elected to abduct. In either case, I’m not aware of them yet. As I mentioned, I’m reading a book and minding my own business. The layout looks more like this from my perspective:

Figure 2: Subway Car Layout (My Perspective)

It’s helpful to keep this image in your mind when I tell you the next part of the story, so you can understand the limited amount of information I had when my character was suddenly tested and I responded by acting like a laughably enormous rose-scented pussy.

Supplemental Information: It’s also helpful to note, if you’ve never ridden public transportation in New York City before, that it’s prudent to adopt the Fifty-Yard Ignoring Stare at all times (a topic I’ve touched on before). Why? Because fully 30% of the population of any given subway car is pants-shitting crazy. On this particular subway ride, I’d already ignored no less than three homeless people, one crazy person (probably, let’s face it, also homeless) and one really angry dude who, for reasons lost on the rest of us, wanted to fight the shit out of someone, anyone at all, as soon as possible.

One homeless guy even walked up and down the car for three stops singing old Motown hits at the top of his lungs, explaining that he wouldn’t use the money he expected us to give him to buy drugs, and assuring everyone present, against all current evidence, that God was a loving God. (I never give these assholes money on the simple principle that they’re taking advantage of our helpless captivity to beg for money, which makes them selfish pricks no matter how pathetic they look. As far as I’m concerned, waiting until a hundred people are locked in a moving subway car before you pull out a guitar unprompted, butcher something by Leonard Cohen and beg me for a dollar is tantamount to breaking into my house, barging into the bathroom while I’m crapping and asking to borrow the magazine I’m reading. I don’t care why you want what you want or when you ate last, Three-Finger Pete. Get the fuck out of my bathroom.)

So for perspective’s sake—and by that I mean, “for the sake of somewhat excusing what a big pussy I’m about to act like”—note for the record that I’d been quietly ignoring a continuous stream of homeless people and short men with anger issues for at least twenty minutes when, apropos of absolutely nothing, I suddenly found a man’s head buried face-first in my dick and balls.

The car hadn’t jolted to a sudden stop or anything. There was no logical explanation for it, other than a man had suddenly decided, without including me in the decision-making process, that the best place for his face was nestled, like lettuce on sandwich meat, on top of my groin. My first thought was that one of the crazy homeless guys had tripped while making his begging rounds. Actually, that’s a lie—this was my second thought. My first thought was “Aghhhh Jesus Jesus!”, and my first reaction was to leap up reflexively like my dick was on fire.

As it turned out, what had happened was that the older gentleman two seats down had… fuck, I don’t know, done one of those old people things. I have no idea what happened to the guy. My only experience with something like this isn’t even firsthand; apparently my grandmother did something similar two Thanksgivings ago. She was at the dinner table with everybody else, eating turkey and complaining about how dry it was to everybody, when suddenly something went LINE 298 ERROR in her brain, she spoke a few sentences of utter nonsense and just… turned off. The lights were on, but there was nobody home. I couldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving that year, so I only heard about it afterwards: 911 was called, she was completely unresponsive for about a half hour—then, just as suddenly, the back-up generator flickered to life and she was herself again, complaining about the doctor’s presence and wondering where the fuck her pumpkin pie was. It weirded my family right out, and I mention it only to illustrate that sometimes old people get up to some wacky shenanigans, and all medical science can do is keep them away from sharp cutlery.

Anyway, it looked like this:

Figure 3: I Don’t Know What the Deal is With Old People, I Seriously Don’t

In case you were getting impatient with the constant anecdotes and asides and started impatiently scrolling down to read the part where I was a huge pussy, this is the part where I was a huge pussy. I leap up from my seat, making a strangled “Gah!” noise and basically freaking out, like I’d woken up to find a huge spider on my face. The old guy, disgorged from my lap and still in freefall, sails downward to the floor of the subway, where his head connects with the base of one of those upright steel poles in the middle of the floor with this extremely nasty, extremely loud, extremely wet K-RRK! noise. Imagine dropping a watermelon down a flight of steps, and it doesn’t split open or anything, but when it hits a step it makes a sound that lets you know it’s probably at least leaking a little now. That was the sound. It was stomach-churningly gross.

I’m standing stock-still, book in one hand, the subway train still moving. About three-quarters of a second has passed, and it dawns on me that I’ve just killed a guy. He’s not moving. Someone shouts “Oh my God!” and then someone else shouts “Oh Jesus God!” while the first person says “Oh my God!” again, but louder.

Then the old guy does start moving, just a little, and groaning. (Hooray! I’m not a murderer!) I immediately start wracking my brain for whatever half-remembered safety tips I might have filed away for situations like this. Wallet under the tongue? I think. No, that’s for epileptic seizures. I remember I’m supposed to not let him go to sleep if he’s suffered a concussion, though this doesn’t seem immediately helpful.

I also suddenly recall a plot point from one of those procedural cop dramas about not moving someone with spinal injuries. They need to lift you up with one of those special paramedic gurneys after your head’s in a brace and you’re all strapped in. Again, not immediately helpful, so I leaf through more mental files. I recall that whenever this happens to someone in the NFL, the medical procedure is to talk very quietly while showing his injury from multiple angles in slow motion. Everyone waits for him to get up on his own and give the crowd a thumbs-up sign, at which point you cheer his bravery and he’s helped off the field.

While I’m thinking all this, in the space of a few seconds, some handsome young guy stands up, walks calmly over to the old man, wrenches him upright, sits the dazed old guy back down in his seat, chucks him on the shoulder, laughs “Hey, we’ve all been there, oldtimer” in a comforting, stage-whispery voice to help the old guy keep his dignity, tousles the grandson’s hair and tells him he’s a pretty brave little kid.

That motherfucking jerk.

The handsome young guy smugly walks back to his seat, where he pretends to ignore the quiet admiration of everyone else on the subway car. Elsewhere on the train, five attractive women get down to the business of imagining what the handsome young guy would feel like inside them, drilling them right there in the car. Meanwhile, I’m standing around like a moron, wearing a dumb “woke up with a spider on my face” expression and still internally debating whether I’ll break the old guy’s spine if I move him. (Apparently not.)

Calmly, hoping to save as much face as I can, I put my book down, smooth out my jacket, walk over to the handsome young guy and punch him as many times in the throat as I can before I’m pulled off his quivering, bloody body. (Note: this doesn’t actually happen, I just sit back down.)