Battle of the Elderly

At risk to letting any stalkers know, I take the subway into work every day.  Most days, I look around, wishing I was back on the New York subway.  Wishing for some person to strike up an instrument or a magician to make a sorry parakeet appear from inside a plate.

Most days, I'm disappointed.  But not today. 

As I climbed down the last step, angry words met me.  They weren't directed at me, but they were loud enough to echo throughout the tunnels.  Everyone's first thought in that situation is that some friends are joking around.  At least, mine is.  It's probably because we would rather not get involved.

I entered the platform, expecting to see two young men in the throes of testosterone.  Shock did not describe it when I passed the two men by.  A black man with a long white beard sat on the metal bench, an older white man with a cane stood over him, berating him.   I stood about twenty feet away, pretending to read my book.

The white man was yelling at the black man for "eyeing his girl."  The only issue I saw was there was no female in sight.  The black man was yelling right back.  He stood up and the two yelled about "taking it outside."  Drastic step for an invisible female, I thought.

I shuffled closer, together with another man.  We looked at each other, wondering what was going on and whether we would really have to separate these two men who had trouble standing. 

The men stood feet away from each other, and my new friend and I began to move in to separate them.  But the white man ambled away, yelling that his adversary was sufficiently warned.

They got on separate cars when the train arrived.  My new friend and I got on a different car.  The subway is like live theater, only unscripted.  And two bucks for a show?  Who can beat that?