I was riding the bus to Warner today and things got
interesting. My friends had suggested that I try riding a different bus line
than I am used to (71) and so I did. Because I was not familiar with the route
I got off at the wrong stop and had to wait for the next 71 to come. At the bus
stop I sat inside the shelter and read my book, and was soon joined by a
scrawny teenage boy who shared my smile and then crouched outside of the
shelter to wait. When the 71 came he got on the bus before me and sat in the
seat directly behind the bus driver. From my spot at the rear end of the
priority seating area I noted his matching Star Wars vans and T shirt. He
really was just a kid, but the adorable nerdy kind that I would have been
friends with in High School and somehow ended up coming back around to in my
adult life.
The back of the bus was sparsely filled and this kid and I
were the only ones in the front until about three stops later when another
teenager, older than the kid, stumbled onto the bus. This teenager was clearly
under the influence of something. He wasn’t swaying exactly, but stood in a way
that suggested his unsteadiness. When he put only one dollar into the cash slot
and sat down the bus the driver had a hard time communicating with him through
his slurred words. The driver was clear about his mistake but despite calm
words the teenager became more and more agitated (a lot of profanity and racial
slurs here) about the unfairness of the situation.
It was about this time that the teenager addressed the kid. He
asked about a possible mutual friend, Tyler, and asked for money. (The bus
driver was calling in the situation on the radio.) When the boy did not
cooperate the teenager, who was sitting directly across from the boy and two
seats away from me, seemed to make up his mind about something. There was a
subtle shift in his gaze—the difference between coherent and irrationally enraged.
Suddenly the teenager stood up and punched the boy in the
face. (At this point the bus driver called the police and reported a fight. I
sat transfixed.) The boy sat back-- dazed at first-- and then stood up in time
for another blow to the face. This time the boy retaliated with a shove that
sent the two of them grappling towards the bus door. I had been thinking “Move! Move? Grab your mace, help the kid, do
something!” but my body was in shock. It wasn’t until the boy stood that I
was able to move myself a few seats back.
At the front of the
bus they straightened up and the boy grabbed something from the teenager who was
at that point screaming profanity furiously. The boy managed to steer the
teenager out of the bus door and after a few attempts to reenter the bus the
remaining passengers, myself not included, rang out in chorus “GET OFF THE BUS”.
Only when the boy threw something and a large man from the back finally stood
up did the teenager run away. On his way out he pressed himself up on the window,
eyes crazed and bloodshot, and screamed threats of violence at the boy.
As the other passengers watched the teenager run away, I
watched the boy. He leapt back to his seat, cursed a few times, then breathed
deeply and looked down at his own shaking hands. “Did you see that? I took his
weapon and then he was such a pussy!” a kind of wild excitement in his voice,
with only a hint of a tremble. It was as if he was looking for me to
congratulate him. I did not want to condone that kind of violent conflict
resolution but, given the circumstances, I was grateful. “Are you okay?” I
asked, and he nodded yes. Apparently the first punch “Didn’t even hurt”.
I returned to my book. Really I just stared at the page. My
heart was racing uncontrollably and my hands were trembling just like the boy’s.
I could not articulate words (I think at one point I had yelled “It’s okay,
just leave”) and it felt like I was trying to think through a cloud.
The bus driver asked the boy if he
required medical attention and if he wanted to press charges, and he apologized
to the driver for the situation. We filed off of the bus and as we waited for
our new 71 and the police, some other boys who had been sitting in the back
spoke up. “Did you even know that Tyler guy?” The boy shook his head. “No” he
said “I just didn’t want that guy on our bus.” The other boys looked at each
other incredulously. Another boy spoke up “Did he punch you with those brass
knuckles?” As soon as I heard this my heart dropped. Sure enough, the boy
explained what I had not seen. “No he didn’t. He tried to put them on but I
grabbed them and put them in my pocket. I didn’t ever want to hurt him, I was
just trying to get him off of the bus.”
It struck me then what had really
happened. This boy, this stranger, had put himself between me and the drunken,
enraged, weapon wielding teenager. With no support from the rest of the bus he
single handedly defended us. I was struck with the image of the boy between
myself and the teenager. This boy with his fists up by his face like a boxer,
complete with a clunky black wrist watch. I wanted to hug him. To thank him and
impress upon him the important truth that the nobility of his action stemmed
not from his physical triumph, but from the courage it took to accomplish that
triumph.
As I was boarding the new 71 I listened
to the boy give his statement to the police. His name was Augustus. My heart
melted. He really was just a boy. I told him as I stepped onto my bus “Have a
better day” and he said that he would try. I wanted to thank him and he was
saying something else to me, maybe apologizing to us for the hold up, but the
people behind me pushed me forward onto the new bus.
I know that I will probably never
see him again but Augustus, thank you.
From this
situation I have made several deductions:
-
There
is an abundance of violence in the world
-
Violence
is caustic, but can become necessary
-
I
have a very poor stress response. In the past I have suspected this but given
today’s events I now know it to be true.
-
In
a self-defense situation, I am helpless.
-
I
want to change that.
