We Can Be Heroes

Originally written August 20, 2006

Freedom is never having to say you are sorry. Freedom is believing you can do no wrong. These are the people capable of anything, of setting events into motion like ripples across water for which everyone around them are effected by. Sometimes we're asked to do more than we should be capable of, more than what we once were responsible for. Sometimes we are tasked with taking into account the lives of others, the lives of those who may never have an importance in our own…

Earlier this week, in the late afternoon. Imagine yourself there as I close my eyes tonight and find myself awake back on that train. The plan was the old familiar, to meet up with the friends that would send me off to that great adventure before me as we celebrated our moment until the skies turned red. There were only a few of us on that train. There were two men adhering to the lowest common perceptions of their so called culture, stirring up that approaching storm. An old man trying to hold on to an idea lost long ago. And a girl about our age, hoping to disappear from all that was around her.

The two boys in the back were riled up, vulgar enough for this old man to turn around and ask them to watch their language for there was a lady present. It would be an understatement of gratuitous proportions to say this level respect fell on the deaf ears of this train car. The boys approach this grandfather, swearing and yelling, playing whatever racial indignities they had been waiting for a moment like this to use, threatening him. The young lady looks back at me with a look that begs that this could not be happening.

I close my eyes and tell myself to stay quiet, wait for your stop and mind your own business. This was not your fight. I might have a lot of voices telling me what to do. I haven’t been too mindful of that one. I stand up and walk half way down the train to stand by the old man, all the while staring at the boys while our world was washed in red. And I silently judged them for what they were, letting them know there was a line on that train car that they would not cross. They tried to threaten me, and I stood my ground. They tried to put a scare in me, and I begged them to try harder. I was untouchable; I was not what they were expecting. And they would keep to themselves.

Later that night.

After several pints from the Irish spring, I board the train and head back to my harem of an apartment. Sitting there once again, still riled up from the stand just hours before, my blood begins to boil once more. Looking around the train, there are a few more people here, older crowd. I’m looking for my place now. And we find our large drunk target sitting across from a group of four girls. I clench my fists as I watch him keep touching them, getting their attention, stumbling over them. They keep telling him to leave them alone. He wasn't listening. Neither was I. In a heartbeat I take stock of the situation, and I know I can do no wrong. He rises from his seat to meet me as I cut off his advances, but only manages to stumble backwards once more. He extends his hand as if looking for a handshake, a partner in crime. I take his hand by the wrist and swat it away, brushing by him as I take his seat near the ladies. He walks over and tries to sit next to me. First mistake. I ask him if he likes to harass little boys as much as he does women, whether that gets him going too. While I thought the alcohol may impair his ability to understand what I was implying, he caught on quick enough. I asked why he was harassing the women, did he strike out all night or was he just that incompetent. I was in control, I was inside his head. I told him I was an assistant state's attorney and I'm sure I'd see him soon enough in court, whether he had a good parole officer these days. All this conversation confused and angered him, but most importantly it served as a distraction, long enough for our women to reach their stop. As they left, one looked back and said thank you, and I smiled and said it’s what I do best. I’m a natural at this sort of thing. I looked down at this waste of existence, for a moment I felt sorry for his life, for being absolutely pathetic. He had no purpose here, no place in the world I see. I pushed off his seat into the wall, laughed and walked off the train.

Two days later.

Once again riding that train back from the city, this is where I belong now. I have a purpose here. I look around me, and I know now what fear looks like. In the middle of the night you don’t have to go too far to find it. Two small Indian girls decked out in the finest clubbing attire stand near the doors. And of coarse there has to be an overbearing guy breathing down on them. I sit there and watch it unfold once again, as if I'm stuck some in some loop in the magic box. Everywhere I go I size up the people around, looking for weaknesses, determining whether if that day then came could I walk away from the fight. The guy is about my size, shaved head, tattooed on his neck. Politely I asked our friend to leave these women alone as they obviously had no interest in his particular brand of urban behavior. He just stared at me. Our moment here was different; he was playing by the same rules. Silently, he was trying to stare me down. I lived a thousand lives in this one moment and felt a greater sense of importance than you could ever imagine. Loudly I told him to walk away from this. And there we were, in his eyes a passion boiling over ready to strike. But I was invincible, knowing, not just believing, that he could do no harm by me. As the train rolled in, I pulled out my keys and wrapped them into my fist around, and whispered carefully that if he thought of trying anything with me or anyone else that night one of us would was going to lose an eye. I was the one ready to strike.

Maybe this is all just a misplaced sense of chivalry. Maybe I should learn to leave well enough alone, to stay out the affairs of others. That voice I refuse to listen to reminds me that I'm a lawyer, my future is incredible and everything I could ever want is waiting for me. Why risk everything you have worked for, why put yourself in harm’s way, over, and over again.