The other day, while whizzing into Manhattan for a doctor appointment, this older, African American woman, got on the train, somewhere beyond 36th Street in Brooklyn, and getting off at Cortlandt Street in Manhattan. The duration bears notice, because of what she went on to do.
She was dressed like some hot Disco Mama, in a beautiful, hooded white coat, a white dress, black stockings, and white boots. I cannot say she was homeless, or just simply off her meds, but I can assure you that, for the entire time she was on the train, she did not stop ranting and raving, in an almost rap-like manner.
She started in with me. "How come you readin' that book?' she said. She kept up goading me about my reading, but I was too engrossed in "Suttree" by Cormac McCarthy, to acknowledge her.
Then she began to get graphic. She started yelling about how hot it was on the train, and that she ought to get undressed. She did not, but she went on and on about her tits--how sweet they were, how there was chocolate on them and between them and inside her vagina, and wouldn't everyone like a taste? I swear I am not making this up. I was terrified she was going to stick herself in my face and sexually harass me, and, honey, if she had, I am telling you, there would have been trouble. Of course, there was no cop anywhere. And at least her rap beat made it almost tolerable.
When she finally got off, at Cortlandt, both the other passengers and I breathed a collective sigh of relief. And I began to wonder, if she is getting out at Cortlandt, a main business area, and has some kind of job interview, with that outfit, and attitude, that is one interview I would love to see. She would intimidate a whole personnel department.
The saying goes that one's best retorts always come after the fact of being insulted or harassed. I am sure many people wanted to walk up to this woman, and just smack her, across the face. But that wouldn't work, because who's to say, or not, she might have had some kind of weaponry on her, and pulled it out. Then things would really spin out of control.
It came to me there would be a simpler way to have dealt with her, one which would leave her speechless, as I am sure she would not understand what I was talking about.
I should have walked over to this woman, faced her head on, and said--
"Why don't you just go on home, and play with your planchette?"
She might have thought she was being sexually harassed. But I doubt it. She would have no idea what a planchette was, and I believe this might have silenced her.
I cannot prove it, but maybe I will try this, should another situation arise.
In which case, I hope I won't be writing this from a hospital!!!!!!!!!!!!
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