When those two little punk ass bitches stepped onto my traincar at 19th St. Station I had a feeling it was going to be a long rest of the way home. They were probably 16 or 17 and talking at an unnecessarily high volume. The boy (I'm not going to call him a guy or a man) was black, thin, and medium height with freshly tightened dreads than hung down just above the shoulder and a smooth voice--the kind of voice that, if he could flow (and he probably could), would be really enjoyable to listen to. His name, I found out, was Jamar. The girl was short and pudgy. Her facial features were slightly scrunched together and reminded me, at every turn, of a pug. She was half white, half asian, and all trash. She was dressed and made up like an over-compensating member of a high school latina streetgang who only got in because she was best friends with one and knew secrets about the rest. If American Me was about a high school latina streetgang, she would be J.D.
Usually, loud conversation doesn't bother me. It didn't bother me this time either...at least at first. From what I could glean, they were returning from Jamar's hair appointment in downtown Oakland where he got his dreads tightened for $45 because they were getting "hella fuckin' loose." As they sat down a few rows ahead of me, one of their phones rang. It was Pug Face's. I never caught her name. She answered and within 10 seconds of saying "hello" had launched into a profanity-laced tirade about some "skank-ass bitches at the hair place" who tried to start a fight with her by "getting all up in her shit" when she told the owner of the hair place that her bathroom was "hella fuckin' nasty."
Apparently, some of the owner's friends were hanging out at the time and accosted Pug Girl. "I tried to slap one of those fuckin' bitches, " Pug Face informed the person on the other end of the line, "but Jamar stepped on my fuckin' slipper so now we on BART and I'm wearing his big ass shoes." She listened for a few seconds and started in again. "Yeah, it was hella whack. I'm a customer. I have a right to know if they bathroom is hella nasty. They don't need to be hella bitches about it and start talkin' shit all blah blah blah up in my face. So I tried to slap one of 'em. Then one of the little gay black guys who works there tried to break shit up and calm it all down but whatever. Just bring me a pair a shoes or sandals or some shit when you pick us up...we goin to Jamar's house...We going to JAMAR'S HOUSE! HE NEEDS TO DO SHIT! Just bring the shoes...okay, cool. Love you mama."
Mama!? You can't be serious. I guarantee you they live in Richmond.
I was conflicted during the entire 2 minute conversation. On the one hand, it was pretty entertaining. On the other hand, it was also pretty fucking stupid and I was trying to read the new Nick Hornby book, "The Polysyllabic Spree." With the snap of the flip-phone, I thought I wouldn't have to worry either way because the conversation was over and I could get back to my book. Oh, how wrong I was.
What happens next? The two of them start recounting to each other in redundant, profanity-laced detail, the events that transpired at the hair place step by motherfuckin' step. Their voices are getting increasingly loud as they piece together exactly how hard each of them is and how they were ready to throw down. They were working each other into a lather and when Pug Face brought up trying to "slap one of those little bitches" before the "little faggot-ass black guy" tried to break it up, I'd finally had enough
"COULD YOU TWO SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!? NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR SHIT! YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE ON THE GODDAMN TRAIN!" I was making a pretty valid point there. The car was completely full and the great majority of us were trying to read or relax after a full day at work. I had gone in at 8 that morning and left at 8 that night. I neither needed nor wanted to hear anymore about their little abortive streetfight. Initially, this didn't sit well with Jamar--the boyfriend.
"What the fuck you say to me? Who the fuck are you?" he asked with an exasperated tone and a voice that noticeably changed pitch from when he first stepped onto the car.
"I'm someone who's trying to read and doesn't need to hear you guys talking hella loud about your stupid shit."
"Bitch, you better watch yo self." Jamar was about as threatening as a cirrus cloud. I stood up anyway and towered over his scrawny ass.
"Look dude, you're not the only people on this train. Everyone on here is tired from work and just wants to relax on the way home. And all you and that pug-faced girlfriend of yours are doing is talking hella loud about stupid shit, dropping f-bombs left and right, and annoying the hell out of me." The 'pug-faced' comment was probably overkill.
Pug Face came charging at me down the center aisle. It is worth noting, at this point, that we were in the very first car in the train and I was seated in the very first row after the door to the cockpit. By this point, someone had finally made their way to the back of the car where the intercom switch was to call into the conductor. He emerged from the cockpit just as Pug Face started her charge.
She tried to kick me, but I saw it coming. I reached down and knocked her foot away. What I didn't see was the left cross she was about to lay on the side of my head with her little fucking purse. WHAM! That shit hurt!!! It literally felt like I was hit in the head with a 3-iron. I righted myself quickly enough to see another blow coming and got my hands up to knock it away. I made perfect contact with the back of my hand and her purse went flying behind her--the contents spilling out onto the floor.
Pug Face went scrambling as the conductor restrained Jamar and I advanced toward Pug Face. I'm not exactly sure why I went after her, but I think it had to do with the frenzied look on her face when her bag sailed from her grip. I was right behind her and saw, almost instantly, why she went scrambling.
It was a can of mace.
This was no Fisher-Price "Baby's First Mace Can" either. This can was big and, judging by the thud it made when it hit the doors, it was full. I've never handled mace before and I've never been hit with it, so I froze for a second unsure of what to do. When I saw her reach for it, I thought "oh fuck." Luckily, I had technology on my side.
BART is run by a very large computer mainframe. Conductors have no control over their trains other than opening and closing doors and stopping it whenever they need to. There is no gas pedal, so to speak. Well as Pug Face grabbed for her mace, we started to pull into Downtown Berkeley station. The train decelerated considerably, pitching her forward and rolling the mace can under the seats besides the door designated for the elderly and the blind.
The train inched to a stop at the platform. The doors opened and on stepped two BART police. They grabbed Jamar and Pug Face and, when informed by the conductor that I had been "assaulted," asked if I wanted to file a report. I said no, but told them she brandished a can of mace which they could find under the seats immediately in front of them. Apparently, that's enough for a weapons charge in Alameda County. Bye bitch!
We ended up delayed at Downtown Berkeley for less than 10 minutes. Before the conductor got back in the cockpit he walked up to me and said "Sir, I'm glad you didn't get hurt and you didn't throw any punches. But one of the passengers told me what you said. Sometimes you need to let sleeping dogs lie." I nodded in resigned agreement and responded, "I would have if they had been sleeping instead of barking their goddamn heads off."
He shrugged, went back into the cockpit, and let the computer drive us home. I was even able to get through 25 more pages of my book. You should pick it up, by the way. I highly recommend it.
Posted by nils at 2:37 PM