Problem Child

Riding mass transit in New York City comes attached to a price tag well beyond the $2.75 fare. Riders have little choice but to pay this considerable surcharge, an emotional toll paid the moment they step into their respective subway cars. Passengers are, by design, captive audiences to the unexpected—eyewitnesses to history and the good, the bad, and the ugly of humanity. I’ve seen plenty on New York City subways, including psychological meltdowns, a homeless man pleasuring himself, and an armed robbery. Fortunately, most subway sideshows are decidedly less dramatic, not especially revolting, and more times than not harmless.

One subsection of “Annoying Passenger,” I classify as the problem child. Typically, it’s just a kid or kids running amok in a subway car as if they were in their living rooms at home. The most galling part of these spectacles are usually the oblivious parents, who see nothing wrong with a crowded subway car performing double duty as Romper Room. Yesterday, I encountered a bona fide problem child, who entered the train with his father, mother, and sister. Immediately, he decreed that he was not going to sit alongside them and bolted to the opposite end of the subway car. Every now and then, the boy returned to verbally unleash on his family and further establish his independence.

In time, I learned that the kid was seven years old and, too, the oldest in his family, including cousins. His sister, six years of age, though, was taller than him. He informed her that the reason she bested him in the height department was that she was fat. A low blow, I thought, and very ungentlemanly. The brat then rambled on about how he has made countless people cry—an accomplishment to boast about in the Soprano family perhaps. The parents took it all in stride. Their son’s behavior was par for the course, I guess. The last straw for me was when the meandering imp began a chin-up session on the hold-onto bars directly across from me. His antics even got the attention of another little boy seated beside his father. Monkey see, monkey do. However, his dad nipped it in the bud straightaway. For some desperately needed fresh air, I exited the scene multiple subway stops before I had intended. It’s the price one pays for riding.

Consider this a prologue to my excursion: My adventure commenced with a bizarre sighting. Well, first, an unseen cry in the wild of sorts—i.e., some deranged and incensed person bellowing an unbroken stream of F-bombs, which seemed especially piercing in the early morning hours. When this individual materialized in the flesh, I realized it was a guy I’ve known by sight for the better part of my life. He always came across as strange but docile and quiet. So, it came as quite a surprise to match the fusillade of invective I was hearing with the familiar face.

It seems the poor fellow had taken a spill, couldn’t pick himself up, and blamed his canine friend for the mishap. I watched as a Good Samaritan helped him to his feet. He then smacked his dog. It was one of those life-altering moments for me, which we all experience from time to time. That is, I will never look upon that man in a benignant light again. While everybody can have a bad day, I know, you don’t blame a dog for your troubles, particularly when someone’s just done you a good turn.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)