PhilYouIn.com

I was 18 years old in August of 1974, sitting on the #3 train out of Flatbush Avenue one morning, on my way into New York City.

It’s called the #2 train now. No one knows why.

The car I was in was fairly crowded with well dressed passengers on their way to work. All the seats were taken, and about a dozen people were standing.

The subway system had no air conditioning back then, just dusty ceiling fans circulating hot, sticky, filthy air. It was a real luxury to ride in.

The walls of the car were covered with paint and permanent marker scrawls; covered with what is currently considered art.

I was seated second from the end of the bench. When the train pulled into the Atlantic Avenue station, four nervous looking teenagers boarded. They stood in a group across from me, just under an advertisement depicting a cowboy smoking a Marlboro.

Great.

Having grown up in Flatbush, I knew to always be alert, and very aware of my surroundings. I never wore a watch (or any jewelry, for that matter) and carried what little money I had in my sock.

I noticed the lady sitting next to me, in the seat closest to the door, was wearing a shiny gold bracelet on her left wrist. Apparently, she had not grown up in Flatbush.

As the train rumbled noisily northward, lurching side to side, lights flashing intermittently off and on, I kept my eyes on the four teens…who had spread out.

Just great.

They kept looking at the seated passengers, then at one another. I kept looking at them. They seemed to be getting increasingly nervous, but not nearly as nervous as me.

Everyone else was oblivious.

After what seemed like an hour, the train pulled into its next stop. Nevins Street.

People came and people went. I had a feeling that before the doors closed, the teenagers would do whatever it was they were there to do.

I was sweating profusely, but not just from the heat.

As the doors were about to slide shut, the teenagers proceeded to carry out their plan; they grabbed things from my fellow unobservant travelers. Watches were ripped off of wrists, necklaces torn from necks.

One boy, on his way out the door nearest me, yanked the bracelet off of the wrist of the lady to my left, with his left hand.

As he did so, the fingers on my right hand suddenly curled into a fist, and struck him, hard, on his wrist. The force of the blow slammed his hand into the metal bar at the end of the bench; his hand opened, dropping the bracelet onto the lady’s lap.

He continued out the door as it closed: gratefully, it remained shut (a rare occurrence back then), and the train continued on its journey. Next stop, Hoyt Street.

Wow, I thought to myself as I finally exhaled: I cannot believe I reacted that way! Was I brave, or what?!?? I mean I didn’t even think, I just responded!

And now I’m a hero! And everyone saw how brave I was!

The TV news is going to want to interview me. Radio, too. My picture will be in the paper. My Mom will first be worried about me, but then be so proud! Mayor Koch is gonna want to meet me!

My excitement lasted until I looked up at the people sitting across from me.

Not a single look of surprise or appreciation. Just people feigning sleep. Or staring stupidly into space, a dumb, vacant look in their eyes. Or reading the newspaper.

They all acted as if nothing had happened.

Little did I realize that these were the ancestors of the people who were doomed to be just as oblivious, with their heads buried in smartphones.

The lady whose bracelet I saved? Staring stupidly at her lap.

Hard to believe.

When the train arrived at the Wall Street stop, all of these titans of industry made their way to the exit. Most left their newspapers on their seats; for the next passenger, I assumed.

What did I learn from this incident? Two things.

One, to never count on people; many of them have nothing going on between their ears.

And most importantly, that whenever I am on the subway, at the first whiff of trouble, always to get up and move to another car…