When Fear Left First

I missed the earlier metro train, so I’m stuck with the five o’clock rush of people. The train platform is near bursting, and we all move as one unit into the train once the doors open. I am grateful to find a place to sit, though it’s in the section of the train where two sets of four side-by-side seats face each other. These are my least favorite train seats as the forward motion of the train causes us to bounce shoulders off each other each time the train stops. There’s three of us in a line with an empty seat beside me until we stop at the Chinatown station. A young man gets in, thin, bearded, and wearing a brown tank top and jeans. He looks around at the crowded train as if he feels out of place. Then he looks at me and the empty seat beside me. His eyes look as if they’re asking permission: “Can I sit by you?” I look away to read my book, and to him, that means yes.

He squeezes in between me and another weary traveler, and then the smell of body odor washes over me. I notice that his jeans are a little dirty, and he cracks his neck and shrugs his shoulders repetitively, compulsively. Is he high? Mentally ill? I’m curious. Just as fast, though, fear races in and forces curiosity to the ground with a knee to the throat. What if he hits me? What if he has a psychotic episode right here? I’m flooded with frightful scenarios, so I begin to control my breathing, trying to breathe a little slower and deeper (OK, maybe not that deep, given the BO). I pray for peace and kindness and love to fill that congested, smelly train car and my fearful heart and the young man beside me. I find space, albeit a small space, to recognize that all is well at that moment. And the next time the train stops, the young man leaves. But my fear left first.