by Haley Pearce
A mighty belch escaped the drunk’s mouth across the way, and I swallowed a grimace before it could stretch across my face. I tried to remind myself that this was a man who had fallen on hard times, that he deserved my sympathy. But his blatant drunkenness was dulling my sense of empathy. He was looking around the train, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. Scanning the assembled passengers, he rose unsteadily to his feet and lay his hand over his heart.
“Hello, ‘scuse the interruption,” he began, slurring incoherently, “My name is Pete, and I was proud to have served in Nam back in the day.”
I raised my eyebrow at the man. He was definitely not old enough to have served in Vietnam. He probably hadn’t even been born when the conflict was still going on. But my skepticism certainly didn’t deter him.
“I used to be a Wall Street banker,” he continued, “But last year, I was diagnosed with cancer, and the big man threw me out on my ass. Then I caught HIV, and I didn’t get no help from nobody...”
He was raving now, clinging onto the rails of the subway with shaking hands. I felt a stab of pity for the man, reduced as he was to lying about his past. The air in the subway car iced over as he raked his eyes over his fellow passengers.
“If you could spare a little change, or some food, I could ‘ppreciate it,” he said. “I used to be a doctor, before they threw me out. Nowhere to go, no help...”
The man lumbered around the rocking subway car, hand outstretched. Nobody offered him what he’d asked for, and the color began to rise in his cheeks. The young boy down the car cowered against his mother as the man came close. Having been denied his offering, the man fell back into his seat, glaring wildly around the subway car. Nobody looked up to meet his gaze, whether from fear, or apathy, or revulsion. He sank back into the plastic bench and stared straight ahead, fuming. His eyes fell heavily upon me and lingered there. In a moment, I could feel his gaze boring through me, resting on my expensive-looking ensemble, and my expertly-painted face. I was suddenly furious with myself for dressing up in so flashy an outfit. Obviously, I should be able to wear whatever I wanted, but looking halfway decent in this city meant a lot of unwarranted attention, especially if you happened to be a woman.
“Hey baby,” the man growled. There was no ambiguity about who he was speaking to. I pretended to study my notes, ignoring him roundly. “I said hello,” he insisted, refusing to be unheard. “Don’t you have any manners?”
I looked up sharply and made the bitchiest face I could muster. The man’s face cracked into a gruesome grin, and a wet laugh escaped his throat. “Are you try’na scare me?” he said, incredulously. “Well, good. I like my bitches nasty.”
Sighing pointedly, I brought my notes up in front of my face, hoping to block out the unsightly image of the man’s yellow-toothed grin. But my attempts at ignoring him only encouraged his outrageous behavior. Struggling, he pulled himself back to standing and started down at me. He was not a small man, by anyone’s estimation. He was much taller than me, and twice my size. My eyes darted around the subway car, silently pleading with my fellow passengers for a spot of help. Not one person returned my desperate gaze. Not one. I should have known better than to expect assistance, but I was disappointed in my new city.
The man took a few shaky steps forward, closing the space between the two of us. I looked anywhere but his eyes, refusing to let him win any power over me. He was just a drunk in the subway, after all. He meant nothing to me, and he couldn’t hurt me. At least, that was what I told myself as he came ever closer.
“You look like a nasty bitch,” he said, resting his hands on the bar above me. He was hardly a foot away from me now, and the stink of booze on him was overwhelming. “I bet under all those fancy clothes you’re a fuckin’ freak. Yeah...You are, aren’t you?”
“Leave me alone,” I snapped. I’d had about enough of his vulgarity. I needed to keep calm and cool before my interview, and this asshole was singlehandedly ruining my state of mind, not to mention massively invading my personal space.
“She speaks!” he cackled, spittle spraying from his face. “You’ve got a pretty voice in that pretty mouth. I wonder what else that pretty mouth can do?”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” I hissed. “You’re drunk, and you’re making everybody on this train extremely uncomfortable. Please sit down and leave me be. I haven’t done anything to you. I would never treat you this way.”
“I’m not drunk,” he slurred, the vodka bottle swishing around in his jacket.
“You most certainly are,” I replied. I was used to reasoning with drunk idiots. My father had trained me well. I also knew how dangerous a drunk man could be, should you insult his pride. But I couldn’t hold my tongue as this man stood leering over me. It wasn’t fair that he felt he could act this way. It wasn’t fair that I couldn’t leave my apartment looking nice without facing down an army of cat callers. What gave these men any right to put me down as I went about my life in the city?
One thing I had most certainly inherited from my father was my short temper. I felt my outrage bubbling over as the drunk licked his lips suggestively, raking his eyes all along my body. Who did this person think he was, to approach a complete stranger and harass her so outrageously? It was sickening. I dropped my eyes away from the man’s face, my breath coming rapidly. I knew it would be stupid to lash out against him, but I could feel anger beginning to blind me. I was teetering on the edge of lashing out when my eyes fell upon the man’s midsection. His hand was wrapped around a pale, ghastly rod of flesh, working up and down its length with fervor. For a moment, my head couldn’t even comprehend what I was seeing. It was so outlandish, so disgusting, that my rational mind wouldn’t even allow for the possibility of the truth.
But the reality wouldn’t be held back for long. I let out an angry, appalled scream as the man continued to jerk off above me. Without thinking, I planted both of my hands on his chest as pushed as hard as I could. He stumbled backwards, his dick hanging out of his pants like an engorged worm. The man fell heavily back into his seat, glaring at me with furious rage. He was humiliated, I could tell. And that could be even more dangerous in a man than pure anger.
“You fucking slut!” the man roared, pulling himself back up to standing. He towered over me, seeming to grow an inch in his anger. My head began to swim as I realized that he was going to come at me. The other passengers on the train were staring at the scene, aghast, but no one moved a muscle. In half a heartbeat, the man began to charge. He thrust his body across the enclosed space, bearing down on me with his hand raised menacingly in the air. A thousand memories of my father flickered across my mind’s eye as he came upon me, his hand poised ready to strike.
In the split second before the drunk began to swing toward my face, a sudden burst of movement erupted in front of me. A tall figure appeared as if from nowhere, grabbing onto my attacker’s arm. The drunk grunted as my defender wrenched his arm backward, pinning it behind his back. With a mighty shove, the second man sent the drunk sprawling across the dirty subway floor. An enraged howl slipped from the fallen man’s lips as he rolled onto his side, clutching his arm.
“You sonofabitch!” he screamed, picking himself up off the ground.
“I think that you should sit down, sir,” said a voice above me. My eyes were so fixed upon the drunken man that I couldn’t even look up to see who had come to my aid a moment before.
The drunk sneered first at me, then at the man beside me. “You want that sweet pussy for yourself, huh?” he cackled. I nearly retched when I saw that his cock was still exposed, hanging there for the entire train too see.
“I want you to leave this young woman alone, and get off the train at the next stop,” the man said, calmly. “Are you going to do that or not?”
I didn’t see the drunk’s hand slip into his pocket until he was already brandishing a rusty box cutter at me. “I’ll show you what I’m gonna do, buddy,” he said. I didn’t even have time to scream before he lunged at
me, blade extended out before him. I curled into a ball against the back of the bench, shielding myself as best I could from his attack.
Two strong hands caught the drunk by the shoulder and wrenched him out of his deadly trajectory. The man defending me swung the deviant in a sharp circle and slammed him hard against the metal pole in the center of the car. A sickening crack rang through the enclosed space as the drunk’s skull collided with the pole. I looked on in horror as the filthy man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He dropped the box cutter, and the crude weapon clattered away from him as the train came to a stop at the next station.
Each and every passenger ran for the doors the moment they sprung open. The drunken man slid down against the pole and fell heavily onto the sticky floor. He was conscious, but barely. I ripped my eyes from his crumpled form and took in the man who had sprung to my defense when no one else would. He turned to face me with a grim half-smile on his face, and I felt my jaw drop open.
Older than me by a good decade, he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen up close. He must have been six feet tall, and his impeccably cut suit hung perfectly on his well-muscled body. I’d seen plenty of attractive men since moving to the city, but so many of them looked like they were trying desperately hard at it. This man, on the other hand, wore his incredible good looks effortlessly. His black hair was closely cropped, his strong jaw line clean-shaven. The eyes above his aquiline nose were dark and intelligent, the kind of eyes that women would want to drown in, I was sure. He held out a hand to me, and I could see the extremely expensive-looking watch on his wrist. This was not the typical subway vigilante, that was certain. Staring up at him bemusedly, I grasped his kindly outstretched hand.
The moment his fingers tightened around mine, a searing spark of excitement tore through my body. He helped me up to standing, and I knew that my cheeks must have been eight different shades of red. My thoughts were a jumbled wreck as I lifted my eyes to his. The man looked down at me worriedly.
“Are you OK?” he asked. I now noticed that his speech was accented, slightly.
“I think so,” I said, “Yes, I...Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” he insisted, still keeping hold of my quivering hand. “It’s what any decent person would have done. Come on, now. We should leave.”
He began to pull me toward the exit, and I nearly tripped over my fallen assailant. “Should we do something about him?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” the man answered, glaring at the drunk. “That looks to be pretty much what he deserves.”
We skipped off the train in the nick of time. The doors closed behind us and the train rumbled forward on its way whisking the horrible drunken pervert away forever. I looked up at the man who had rescued me just moments before, full of gratitude. There was no telling what that man might have done to me, had he not intervened. I tried to think of some way to thank him, to express in just the right words what his actions had meant to me. He was looking down at me, curious but collected. Just as I was about to speak, someone began to clap from the subway turnstiles.
I turned toward the slow applause and spotted a gorgeous woman staring straight at me. Her huge hazel eyes and perfectly pouty lips were arranged in an expression of utter resentment and ire. Her long, lean body was wrapped in a skin-tight black dress that would have put Audrey Hepburn to shame. She swung her gaze toward the man at my side and continued to clap sardonically.
“Well done, Girard,” she hissed. “Assaulting a civilian on your morning commute? A new and impressive low.”
Girard, I repeated to myself, relishing the feel of his name as it rolled around in my mind. The exotic name suited him well.
“Monica,” Girard said, walking toward the beautiful woman, “I had to step in. You saw what—”
“I saw you acting like a fucking idiot in front of a packed subway car. That’s what I saw,” the woman spat. “What if someone had snapped a picture of you? I’m sure some tabloid would pay big bucks for a photo of you beating a homeless man. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that a young woman was about to get seriously injured if I didn’t intervene. With my training—”
“Forget about your goddamn training, Girard!” Monica screeched, her voice ringing off the subway walls. As I listened, her words ran together like a raging rapid, gushing through her register faster than I could comprehend. When Girard answered in a similarly unintelligible way, I rather feared that I’d lost my mind. Had the panic that came along with the attack addled my brain somehow? But a few sounds, a few words began to make sense as Girard and Monica shouted at each other. They were speaking another language, I realized. They were speaking French.
Rescued from a crazy, homeless drunkard by a dashing Frenchman? It was certainly not how I had anticipated my day unfolding, but I wasn’t going to complain. I looked on as Girard weathered Monica’s frenzied shouting, and started to feel self-conscious as their argument raged on. Clearly, they were traveling together. They must have been some kind of couple, for her to be so upset. I let out a little sigh; of course he was with a gorgeous, tall, slender model type. The good guys always got snapped up by the pretty girls. Not that I had anything against my own looks, of course. But I was the kind of girl people called “naturally pretty”. A compliment in my book, but definitely not on the level that this Monica was operating. Even furious, she was stunning. Her eyes were fierce with outrage, her manicured hands balled into fists.
I ran my hands awkwardly over my own ensemble, thankful that I hadn’t gotten too mussed-up before my interview. A cold panic swept over me as I remembered—my interview! I pulled out my phone and checked the time; only fifteen minutes until my appointment. I needed to be four stops further along on the train. That goddamned drunk had thrown a wrench in the whole thing. My brain swirled through alternative routes, but I drew blank after blank. I didn’t know the city well enough by then to come up with a subway detour. But I definitely didn’t have any cash for a cab, either.
Without thinking, I rushed toward the turnstiles, past the arguing couple. I didn’t even know where I was headed as I raced up the steps, back out into the sunlit day. The bright daylight shone off mirrored skyscrapers that rose up into the clouds. I looked around wildly, seeking out some landmark I could identify. I was somewhere in Midtown, that much I could surmise, but past that I was utterly lost. Every block, every street looked exactly the same to me, the press of humanity on the sidewalk was unbearable.
I felt a firm hand come down on my shoulder and whirled around, disoriented. Girard was standing behind me, looking concerned.
“Pardon me,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for my assistant’s behavior just now. She’s a very temperamental person. Productive as hell, but not one to cross, I’ve found.”
“Assistant?” I echoed. A pang of relief cut through my panic. They weren’t a couple after all! At least not in his mind. Though the jealousy that shone in Monica’s eyes as she looked at me told another story entirely.
“I didn’t want you to leave thinking that I was some inconsiderate bastard,” Girard smiled. “I hate knowing that there are people in the world with poor opinions of me.”
How could anyone have a poor opinion of you? I wondered to myself. Aloud, I said “You saved me back there. That guy could have done anything. I owe you big time.”
“I was only doing what I had to,” Girard insisted.
“Still,” I said, “Thank you.”
“Perhaps you could join Monica and I for lunch?” he suggested. “We’re only in town for a few days.”
I thought briefly of Monica’s furious gaze before remembering once more that I was going to be shamefully late for my interview if I didn’t get going. Spending more time with Girard was simply not in the stars. I wished that I could have gotten the chance to know my mysterious defender. I wouldn’t have minded staring into those eyes of his for another hour, that was for sure. My desire to hang on his every word, the hysteria of
the train ride, and the fact that I was about to miss the most important interview of my life all came to a head, overwhelming me as I stood before him. I felt hot tears spring to my eyes at once.
“What’s wrong?” Girard asked. “Sorry, stupid question.”
“No, no,” I said, trying like hell to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. “It’s just that I have a really big interview, like, right now. And that asshole on the train totally fucked up—sorry—messed up my schedule, and now I’m going to be late, and—”
“Where’s the interview?” Girard asked.
“Uh...Lexington and Fifty Sixth,” I said.
“Well, let’s get you a cab. That’s not too far.”
“No,” I said, embarrassed, “I really don’t have the cash...”
But Girard had already stepped up to the curb and raised his arm to hail a cab. He was an impressive figure against the endless stream of traffic. His body was perfectly muscular, not like the swollen, gym-manufactured men I saw walking around Manhattan all the time. His sharp eyes peered into the oncoming flow of cars, and lit up as a yellow cab served toward the shoulder. Girard smiled back at me and beckoned that I come take the car. As I approached, he swung the door open for me. I nearly laughed, it was so ludicrous that a man like Girard should be attending to me.
I climbed into the cab and watched as Girard slipped the driver a crisp twenty. As we peeled away from the curb, I turned to take one last look at Girard. He stood on the sidewalk, smiling after me. A rush of longing swept through me as the distance between us grew. I was suddenly possessed with the urge to leap out of the cab, run back to the stunning Frenchman, and give him a proper thank you. But even as I watched, a disdainful Monica joined him on the curb, clutched onto his arm, and drew him away into the bustling crowd.