Disclaimer: This five-part story, although not this specific installment, contains violence that although graphic and disturbing in nature, may prove necessary. In addition, this part contains racially-charged hate speech, and the threat of sexual violence. If you stick it out through this and the next two installments, you’ll be rewarded by some hot sex in part four.
The train car was nearly empty. Ricky sat quietly in the last row, listening to music through sterile white earbuds while reading on his phone. He was on his way home from work, tired and looking forward to an uneventful four-block walk to his apartment when the train reached the end of the line at Industrial Boulevard.
Ricky didn’t love night work, especially given the fact that, despite the lateness of the hour, his shift was never calm nor quiet. Unpredictable? Definitely. Chaotic? Almost without fail. But “calm” wasn’t something he associated with his work. And if it as ever quiet, it was only for a moment or two before giving way to pandemonium. Ricky dealt with people at their absolute worst. He’d been yelled at, punched, and even stabbed. He’d watched people die right in front of him, their blood staining his clothes and his hands as he tried desperately to save their lives. And sometimes his efforts actually paid off. Those were the nights that made it all worthwhile.
He delivered a baby once. That was an on-the-job trial-by-fire, and an experience he knew he would never forget. Did it make up for the stress? Did it compensate for the sleepless nights? Did it offset the awful reputation with which he and others like him were saddled? The assholes taunting him and calling him names? Having to dodge punches, kicks, and baseball bats? That time when he got hit in the head with a whiskey bottle? Ricky wasn’t sure, but he knew that if he’d truly wanted calm and quiet, he would have sought a more suitable line of work.
At the very least, though, he was grateful that his schedule usually ensured a quiet ride home. He took the last train of the night, when most riders were long since home and asleep. Once in awhile, typically on a Friday or a Saturday, he’d have to content with crowds and noise, or even some rowdiness, but that was the exception rather than the rule. Usually the subway station was all but deserted when he got on, and the train itself sparsely filled at worst. Sometimes he had the whole car to himself.
On this particular night, he didn’t have the whole car to himself. On the opposite end – indeed, as far from Ricky as one could get without moving to a different car – sat a young woman, clad conservatively in a pair of slacks, a modest sweater zipped up high, and a traditional hijab. She hadn’t consciously opted to sit so far from the sole other rider, but if asked she might have said that as a young woman traveling alone it made sense to allow herself the option of escape should it become necessary.
Ricky had noticed the woman, of course, but he didn’t concern himself with where she was coming from or headed to; had he given her much thought he would have acknowledged those things were none of his business. What’s more, he had taken notice of all the #metoo posts in his social media feed in recent months, and he assumed she was wary of him. As well she should have been; he didn’t consider himself dangerous, or even entitled, certainly not when compared to most of the guys he knew. And he’d always tried his hardest not to be the kind of man who made women dread sharing an enclosed space with him, be it an elevator, a waiting room, or public transportation.
But the young woman sitting on the other side of the train car didn’t know him from Adam. For all she was aware, Ricky was a serial rapist, or some kind of Trump-loving xenophobe. Or both. Her headscarf suggested she was Muslim, and even in as progressive and liberal a city as this one, a member of a religious group so demonized in the eyes of the general public had cause for fear. Especially a young woman riding alone. The last thing Ricky wanted to do was give her any reason whatsoever to be afraid; he guessed she probably had sufficient reason already. He listened to his music and read an article on his phone. He didn’t even look at her.
The train slowed and came to a stop at Baypoint Station. As the doors slid open, Ricky peeked up from his phone to see if the young woman was going to exit the train there, but she did not. As both riders waited for the doors to shut and the train to resume its journey, he felt a slight twinge of disappointment. That meant they’d be sitting in the car together for a long time, as Baypoint was the last stop before the long ride through the Tube. No matter; if she wasn’t put out by his presence, Ricky saw no reason for he himself to feel awkward about it. The door to the next car was mere feet from where she sat, and if she felt the need to make a hasty exit she could do so easily.
Just before the doors closed, half a dozen men boarded the train. The young woman looked up, barely able to hide her distaste. They may have been men in the legal sense – they were clearly all over age eighteen – but to all outside appearances, these were boys. They were rowdy and obnoxious, riding some kind of adrenaline high fueled by white male braggadocio and alcohol. Dressed in cheap J.C. Penney polo shirts, sweater vests, khakis, all-American blue jeans, and loafers, they whooped and hollered, trading high-fives and fist-bumps. She had seen their type countless times before, and she didn’t like them. But she was prepared for them.
As the train began to move, they continued their display of false bravado, no doubt congratulating each other on their latest micro- or macroaggressions. Even with his earbuds playing music all the way at the rear of the train car, Ricky couldn’t help but notice the commotion, and while he wanted to keep an eye on the new arrivals he tried to focus on his reading. Still, it wasn’t easy for him to dissociate when he saw how close they were standing to the young woman up front. There was an entire train car’s worth of empty seats for them to use. Instead, all five had opted to stand, holding stanchions and grab handles rather than placing their asses on relatively comfortable cushions for the twenty-minute ride across the Bay. The young woman couldn’t help but notice it either, certainly not once they addressed her directly.
“Look at this camel fucker sitting here.”
As soon as the words his her ears, the woman’s eyes went wide – Ricky could see it all the way from the other end of the car – and, in spite of herself, she looked up at them. She couldn’t see the expression on her own face, but she knew she must have looked aghast at the sheer hatred and vulgarity.
The one who’d spoken was about thirty-five, slim and clean-shaven with light brown hair and eyeglasses that would have made him look studious if not for the ignorance and hate she’d just heard in his words. He was dressed in a style she associated more with boardroom political correctness than with virulent racism. The others were no different: Well-dressed, if average and unremarkable physically. They resembled a group of professionals who’d been out blowing off steam after putting in overtime at their high-rise office jobs Downtown.
A man about the same age, slightly paunchy with a mustache and black hair that was thinning at the top, looked down on her in her seat and then spoke: “What are you doing out this late, honey?” His words dripped with feigned courtesy, the sort of politeness one uses to distract a mark from the fact their pocket is about to be picked. She said nothing, so he continued. “Riding the subway this time of night isn’t safe for someone like you.”
She wanted to ask what that meant, someone like you. Was he referring to women? Women in hijabs specifically? But she bit her tongue rather than make a sound.
“You could get hurt,” said a third, standing behind her. She didn’t look at him, but he sounded ugly. “Raped. Beaten up. Maybe even killed and thrown away.” She didn’t like the suggestion in his words and his tone, and she prepared herself for anything.
Someone else spoke: “You don’t want that, lady. Do you?” It was the first one again.
The woman kept her eyes fixed on the paunchy one with the mustache. He looked like he was somebody’s uncle, or even somebody’s father. She wondered if he had a niece or a daughter close to her own age, and felt sorry if he did. He spoke again: “So what, honey? You don’t really fuck camels, do you?”
“Nah. She just fucks other rag-heads.” This one wore glasses too, his blond hair parted perfectly on the right side. His clothes, though immaculate, didn’t automatically scream “tough guy”; she was perplexed by his obvious overcompensation, not only in his coarse words but in his unattractive sneer as well. The impression she got was of a man whose father never had time to play catch with him when he was a child, and who had a lot of unresolved anger over it. He moved toward her seat and extended a hand close to her face. She spoke at last, a warning for him not to touch her. Though she was sure he and his friends were surprised by her words, he ignored them:
“We got twenty minutes until the next stop. What say we all get to know each other better?”
Continued in Part 2.
