Fist-fight on the F Train
The Really-Fat-Sweaty-Man had been sitting with his back to me, his legs stretched out into the aisle and leaning on me for 8 stops. Riding the subway home is often uncomfortable, but sometimes people try to use you like a pillow. Squashed into the side of the car, I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing my stop is just two stops away when the guys turns around to speak to me.
"Get you goddamn elbow out of my back or I'll punch you in your fucking face!" he says. I must say I'm stunned, but still a bit angry. I reply, "I'm over as far as I can get, pal. Stay on your side of the seat and you'll be just fine." So, he gets up, punches me in the face, knocking my glasses to the floor and scratching my cheek in the process.
I push him away and get to my feet to better defend myself. We stare at each other, our fists raised. There is a pause as I consider my limited options. Avoiding a fight at this point is nearly impossible. The train is moving and I (and about 60 other strap-hangers) are trapped in this car with this bully until the next stop. So I decide to stand and fight. I lunge forward with a quick left, stepping forward as my father taught me to put the weight of my body behind it. I'm trying to break his nose, but he tilts his head back to try to get away and my fist catches him on his front teeth, opening up a deep gash on my third knuckle. He falls on top of some unlucky seated commuters. Off-balance, he reaches up over one of the horizontal bars you use to steady yourself and grabs me by my hair, pulling back his other fist to hit me in the face. I quickly jab again with my left to quite literally 'beat him to the punch'. He falls down again, this time in the corner of the train. It takes him a second, but I let him scramble to his feet. I am just thinking "why isn't anyone helping me?" when a tall black guy and a short white guy step between us and hold him back. Someone retrieves my glasses and the short guy tells me to have a seat. My heart is warmed by my fellow New Yorkers intervention, but my left hand hurts like hell. I take quick stock of my condition; a scratch on the face and a bloody hand from hitting him in the teeth. I look over at my adversary to see blood covering his chin and dripping down his shirt. I had knocked in one of his teeth.
He gets off at the next stop with another guy and the two of them watch me through the window, hoping I'll get off so the two of them can have their revenge. Not gonna happen. The doors close and the train whisks away. A little old lady sitting next to me says, "I saw the whole thing! You were only defending your self!" and hands me some tissues a band-aid from her purse. "You should have that looked at."
I take her advice, and after an X-ray, a tetanus shot and a full blood work-up was given a clean bill of health. Still have a scar on my hand to remind me, though.
Thinking about it later, I realize that it's the first fight I've been in since high-school. I don't like fighting, and I try to avoid it when possible. But there is a little part of me that's glad that bully will think twice before threatening someone.
