A New York Story: My Subway Valentine

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Of late, we're getting horrible news from the New York City subway: women getting pushed onto the tracks, with the expected, appalling results.(Lesson: never stand on the edge of the platform while waiting for a train.)The New York City subway must've been part of the punishment God had in mind when He condemned humanity to work for a living. Morning commutes are nightmares of biblical proportions. Every day, you fight your way onto crowded trains (or risk being late for work) while simultaneously dodging potential gropers. If you're a woman, you quickly learn to identify the types of male commuters most inclined to try and cop a feel (the ethnic-looking ones--of ANY ethnicity-- are good bets). Some of these guys even turn it into a sport, riding the train lines in loops, scouting for potential victims. Usually a target for such affronts, it never occurred to me that I could turn the tables and do something similar to a man on a train. But I have,I did, and if it bothered him, he didn't let on. It happened pre-pandemic, a couple of years ago. I was making my way home, after a bad day at work and a nasty encounter with a groper. He had rubbed his groin against my backside and flashed a ferocious grin when I turned around to see what I was dealing with. He looked like a homeless Buckwheat on steroids (or heroin, more likely). Homeless men are the ones attacking women on subways these days, BTW. NYPD take notice. But back to my story: not wanting to cause a commotion or gratify the creep with any shows of anger, I just edged away from him. But I had moved in front of a door, where there was nothing to grab onto for balance. And the train was packed. Directly behind me, holding on to a ceiling bar, was an Irish-looking old man, with the requisite tweed jacket, wool beret, and clear blue eyes. Almost without thinking, I did the unthinkable: I leaned sideways against the old man's chest. I don't know what possessed me, you must believe me when I tell you that I don't go around throwing myself at strange men in public transportation.

But as the old song goes, we all need somebody to lean on, and the tolerance of this stranger was the only thing keeping me upright on that train. The funny thing was, we didn't acknowledge each other during the entirety of that odd little moment in time.We pretended it wasn't happening. Another man might have grinned or pushed me away or tried to pick me up or touch me inappropriately, but this one did none of these things. Instead, he chose to be a gentleman, squaring his jaw and staring ahead with those steely blue eyes, while intermittently tensing and bracing himself to support my weight with every bump and jostle.(Mind you, I'm not exactly light).Was he pissed? I'll never know. I got off that train in a hurry, without saying goodbye. Or thanking him. But wherever he is, whoever he might be,I'll light a candle for him every Valentine's Day until the day I die. (Full disclosure: the gentleman in the above photo is not my savior of

the train,just someone who looks extraordinarily like him)