July 14, 2011

It was one man against himself on the metro.  The man: not well.  Una chica muy flaca que tenía 5 anos: next to me.  Me: next to the crazed man.  My forehead vein: green, popping, filled with tense blood.

The man’s small t-shirt (lots and lots of paint) gave more beef to a beefy frame.  His teeth hung over his murderous mouth.  I respected his hunched figure and black wolf eyes.

In a fight I had only my reach.  He was about 5 four and a strong 165.

He started cursing.  He had the voice of someone who smokes four cigarettes, has coffee, looks in the mirror, eats remaining cigarettes.

The curses were all in Spanish because I live in Spain.  Bad words, palabrotas, I think they call them.

A note on mental illness: it ain’t funny.  A note on this dude: he was.   He was irritated in a way that is very true.  I was a bit too close too him.  Everyone the crowded metro was.  He provided no reason for his anger that I could understand.

Finally he stepped to some guy.  They shared words.  They shared forearms. They did that thing that fellas do sometimes.  Not sure if they would win the fight but trying their best to convey the opposite.

Fists were put up, but not thrown.  A few people left the train car at the next stop.  The little girl next to me looked with wonder.

The star said to his adversary: ‘Sales.’  The adversary replied, ‘No, no, sales tú!’  The star again, his underbite now heavy with hate, ‘No… No, no, no.’

I wondered why they didn’t use the imperative form of salir.   Would’ve been a great opportunity to hear an irregular verb in action.

Then a security guard came on and ushered them both off.


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