I celebrated my second anniversary of my move to NYC last night with a large man cooing in my ear while riding the packed 4 train from Grand Central to Wall Street. My earbuds in place, I listened to Howard Stern play a phony phone call. The woman squeezed at my side had a pointy purse at crotch level making me wish I’d worn a cup. And then it started.
“You’re my son. You’re my son. You’re my son.” I couldn’t quite hear him at first, but you know that feeling you get when someone is staring right at you? I looked up into a gaze of hate, his mouth moving, his stage whisper getting louder, his lip curling at the word “son.” I took out one earbud, leaned a bit closer, almost kissing distance.
“Huh?”
“You’re my son. I’m your father. I taught you everything you know. You are my son,” and so it went, getting more rapid, never breaking eye contact with me until my eyes darted around hoping to see if someone else was his son. Nope, it was me. There was a woman about three heads away whose look told me she was sorry.
“You are my son.”
And then it dawned on me. He must have a knife! He’ll plunge it into my stomach, but I won’t fall, the crush of people keeping me upright while I bleed out. Sure, that’s it, he’s going to make his move any second.
His mantra continued. I think he forgot to blink. I tried looking everywhere but at him, a foolish pursuit. I couldn’t help it. He was my captor; I was his son. Our relationship bloomed until we finally pulled into the Union Square station. Everyone shuffled about, some left, which gave me the space to move nearer the door, separated from him by at least six bystanders.
I looked up. His eyes watered. His mouth moved. His stare was mine. I looked down and fell back into Howard, the phony phone call long over, and 11pm local news lost a story. As I left at my stop, I craned my neck to make sure he wasn’t following me, and I saw he’d found someone else. His lips moved with that familiar phrase and now he had another son.
And that was my anniversary in NYC.