Metro attack

Even before I stepped out of the stall, I knew the girl at the counter would be my friend Gayle. I don’t know if recognized her cough, her step, or I just expected her. It’s always Gayle. My bathroom/elevator/Metro friend.

We met several months ago but had seen each other for ages before that. We work on the same floor and we work the same schedule. We both ride the metro. I see her several times a week. In the bathroom, the elevator, the Metro. We’d talked a few times before she introduced herself. We talk all the time now. Swapping stories of the weekend, well wishes for the night ahead. More than the elevator nod or the smile of recognition, actually talking.

When I stepped out the stall tonight, I smiled and said, “Hi.”

“I knew it would be you,” she said. “We’re the only ones still working, I think.”

She was right. I was the only in still in my office. I washed my hands and moved over to the paper towels as she watched herself, making the “O” face that goes with eye makeup and lipstick. Suddenly, she turned.

“Did you leave at this time yesterday?” she asked. I struggled for a minute, trying to remember.

“I think I left early…” meaning somewhat close to on time or not so crazy late.

“Were you in the Metro when that woman attacked that girl?”

“What? No!”

She proceeded to tell me a story, wide-eyed and full of surprise. Apparently, a girl, on the Metro platform had been pacing while talking on her cell phone. (Obviously a Verizon subscriber.) She bumped into a woman, apologized and continued her conversation. A minute or two later, the woman walked up and slapped the girl. Again. And again. And again. Four times she slapped the girl and walked away.

“Who does that?” I asked. “Why?”

“She was obviously crazy.” Gayle continued her story, telling of how the shocked girl glanced at her (Gayle) in bewilderment and my bathroom/elevator/Metro friend shrugged. She didn’t know what was happening. The woman had gone and taken a seat. Mere moments later, she got up and attacked the girl. According to Gayle, she’d not just hit the girl; she beat her. She stomped her. She was filled with rage.

“I don’t know what happened. She looked just like us, professional, well dressed, like she’d just gotten off work. Obviously, she was crazy,” Gayle explained as I dried my hands and walked back to the sink. A few women had tried to peel her off the tiny college student, to no avail. “She was swinging and shouting anti-American sentiments.”

A couple of men tackled her, pulled her away. Someone ran for a station attendant who meandered down the stairs and toward the scene. By the time he arrived, the woman, the attacker, had stepped on a train and ridden off into the night. The girl, late for a class at George Washington, tried to leave; though, others tried to persuade her to file a police report.

Standing there, muttering with shock, I watched Gayle finish her makeup and pack up her bag. I almost envied her the experience of someone go nuts. Almost. I tried to imagine such a scene on the platform below. It was hard. People don’t act like that in real life. People barely act like that in movies.

After my own day of rage (I was positively livid at one point), the worst I’d done was snap at a couple of people while volunteering to help with someone else’s project, to fix someone else’s mistakes. I’ve never been angry enough for a beat down on the Metro platform.

Following Gayle out of the bathroom and toward the elevators, I wished her a good night, a safe trip home. I went back to my office to work a little more before heading home. I couldn’t find anything about an attack online. It’s almost like it didn’t happen. Almost. But for the news from my bathroom/elevator/Metro friend Gayle.


Tag: Metro Attack Violence