“Move. Get out of my way.”
An ashy voice called out, breaking the silence amongst a tired group of riders. We could barely shift to make way for the older gentleman forcing his way through the crowd. It was causing a chain reaction of bumping into; I got an elbow in my back, so I pressed forward into the small lady wedged between me and an angry-faced Asian man. She yelped as she turned towards me, so I shrugged to communicate that, hey, we’re all getting squished. I’m not the asshole here.
“You,” Pointing a bandaged finger, he called out once more, “Move. Get up.”
There’s really no context that makes such harsh combination of words sound justified. He stood — or shall I say, shook — at about 4 feet tall. Had he not been hunching over his cane, he might have had a good 5 more inches on him. I could only see the top of his knitted beanie as he repeated over and over, “Get up. Move. Move. I said get up. Move, woman. I need a seat.”
Granted, he really did need a seat. He relied so heavily on his cane that his left leg practically dragged behind him. His pace was painfully slow, and his arms shivered as if they were constantly cold. How’s that for context?
Upon seeing the disheveled figure heave and squeeze his way towards the first set of seats, one might have argued, why yes, it’s totally justified. Sympathy excuses rudeness, I guess.
Wagging his finger in the woman’s face, he spoke louder this time. “You. GET UP.”
The elderly man sitting beside her didn’t even try to hide his simultaneous horror and disgust. A couple times, it seemed like he was going to speak up for her, but each time, he hesitated. I did, too; we were all in the same dilemma. Who wants to be the one to tell an old handicapped man that he’s wrong for demanding a seat?
The woman, who was just as aged as the man hovering over her, could’ve easily reciprocated with sharpness or anger. But instead, in the sweetest voice, she said, “Give me a moment, honey. I understand.” and very, very slowly used the pole beside her to rise to her feet. She then grabbed her OWN cane and wedged herself into the crowd.
The man, now sitting in her place, explained, “You know, I’m not a violent man. I didn’t want to get violent. I just needed a seat.”
As the bus resumed, shuffling its standing riders side to side, I could hear her shaky voice answer back as she held onto a pole for dear life: “I know, honey. I know what’s it’s like to be in pain. You rest your feet, honey.”
She stumbled a couple times, and I offered her my arm, to which she smiled but politely declined. She said she would be getting off to wait for the next bus, in hopes that they have a seat.
I wish I could explain in words the rush of emotions that stirred in my pot as I watched her step off the bus into the cold night and get in line for the next.
I wish there was a point to this story, other than to point out that genuine patience does exist in New York City. You can call me to the witness stand.
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