David Woode

Living in London and having the (mis)fortune of frequenting public transport, you become accustomed to the pitfalls of TfL.

Shit grime music being pumped out of equally shit mobile phones; facety youths munching on a diet of Morleys chicken wings and nonchalantly tossing their bones into a commuter’s jacket hood (harsh I know, but I felt powerless to act), and miserable bus drivers who have no problem in messing up your commute - A personal highlight was one driver, who switched off the engine, got out of his seat and shuffled into uncertainty, only to deliver the cussing-of-a-lifetime to a bunch of unruly brats who were flicking yoghurt at some poor Italian tourists.

But what happens when you witness someone in distress? They are sat directly opposite you. Do you act? Or do you do what everyone else does and rediscover the delights of your iPods or stare into nothingness?

Never have I been so humbled on public transport. The following account actually happened. And if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy, you are cold-hearted and I WILL JUDGE YOU FOREVER.

…Travelling Downtown on the 1, we whizzed past various landmarks and tourist attractions. It was a busy Saturday evening in NYC… the young professionals, students, theatre-goers and those in between had hopped on the weekend express and were getting ready to alight at “Saturday Night.”

I was stood up. And then I noticed her. This lady was nestled between a young, Spanish-looking brunette and some dreadlocked Sista. Blonde and Latin American appearance, this woman was clutching a red Coach handbag (I recognised that brand cos one of my aunties would insist on spending my uncle’s hard-earned cash on these expensive totes. They are now subsequently divorced), and a clear plastic bag.

Normal, huh?

On closer inspection, this lady was sporting the most horrific black eye I have ever seen. Purple in appearance, this shiner was fresh. Dried blood covered the front of her blonde locks, as well as her staining her forehead and ears.

Then she began sobbing to herself; bottom lip quivering, eyebrows twitching, eyes blinking with abandon. She wasn’t homeless, you could tell, but she was in a state.

She starts talking. Everyone is silent. Even the shaking and juttering of the travelling subway car tones itself down. She says she needs to get to E57th Street. She tells us how she’s had a fight with her boss, how they beat her up, took her money, and left her in this state.

Observing everyone’s diverted eye-contact, it was probably the most uncomfortable minutes of my existence so far. My conscious was being tested, and the reaction was unexpected.

She starts crying again, no sound, no embarrassing reality TV wails, but a dignified, restrained sobbing. Then suddenly, the Spanish lady to her right makes a movement. Everyone in the carriage is transfixed, wondering what she is going to do.

The Spanish lady reaches inside her purse, pulls out $5 and puts it into the woman’s hand. She gives the woman the directions she needs and along with the rest of us, disembarks at 42St.

Feeling embarrassed and worried, I wonder how the lady with the red handbag got herself into the situation. Walking along, me and my friend were both silent. The neon fascia’s of Times Square flickered and blinked and we walked Downtown. We were both thinking about the same thing.

I turn to my friend and say, “Why would someone beat up their employee? “

My friend looks back to me, questioning my naivety, and says: “Think about it. She is a prostitute. He is her pimp.”

We both carried on walking. My question was answered. But my conscience was heavy with guilt.

♫ The Cars – ‘Drive’