That Time I Almost Started a Fight on the Metra

I wove around the unattended children and slow walkers towards my track.  It had been a long day, full of annoying people, and all I wanted to do was flop down in a seat and turn off my brain.  I was already feeling less anxious as I stepped onto the train, anticipating the solitude of the Quiet Car…

Crap.  Cubs fans.

I’m a Cubs fan myself, but I absolutely hate it when they’re on the train.  It’s harder to find seats, they’re usually drunk and raucous, and since they’re usually not regular riders of the train, they generally don’t understand the nuances of the Quiet Car.

Well… There’s only one nuance, really.  Don’t talk in the Quiet Car.

As I selected my seat, I mentally rehearsed the speech that any regular denizen of the Quiet Car is accustomed to giving.  There are signs posted, but it’s common knowledge that offending riders could be staring directly at a sign and still not register what it says, assume it doesn’t apply to them, or pointedly ignore it.  Excuse me, my version of the speech begins.  I just wanted to make sure you’re aware that you’re sitting in the Designated Quiet Car.  If you’d rather converse, there’s probably still time to find good seats in a different car before we get moving.

I sat down, pulled out my phone, and gave it a few seconds, aware of the two Cubs fans in the edge of my peripheral vision.  The man was probably in his early twenties. He was built like a linebacker, but the kind that spends most of his time on the bench.  The woman was difficult to place, age-wise.  Early forties, maybe–his mother?  Difficult to say, because a fairly apparent predilection for tanning beds had turned her skin into jerky.

To my surprise and relief, I didn’t have to use my prepared Quiet Car speech.  The pair just sat there, quietly, staring into space.  Well, that’s lucky, I thought.  Someone must have already told them.  Quiet Car regulars tended to police matters themselves.

After a couple minutes browsing Facebook, however, I became aware of a ruckus behind me.  I turned, annoyed.  Who was talking?

It was the guy a couple seats behind me.  “Are you gonna do something? Huh? Or are you two just gonna stare at me?”

Oh.

Oh.

The situation suddenly became much more clear.  The Cubs fans weren’t staring into space–they were staring, with the intensity of a death wish, at the gentleman two seats behind me.

Now I knew who had delivered the bad news about this being the Quiet Car.

Given that the pair were clearly drunk, I figured they would get tired or distracted and stop picking on the guy pretty quickly, but no–well after the doors closed and the train left the station, a span of several minutes, they continued death-glaring at the man behind me.  He would occasionally address it–“still staring at me, punk?”–but the Cubs guy, in particular, was dedicated, clearly having reached the decision that making this guy uncomfortable was now the primary business of his life.

On the edge of my vision, although I tried to ignore it, I could see him, leaning forward aggressively, unblinking.  It was making me uncomfortable.

I turned in annoyance, and the guy finally shifted position… Without breaking his gaze, he reached into his pocket, drew out his phone, trained it blatantly on the Quiet Car citizen who had offended him, and pointedly tapped his finger right about where the ‘record’ button would be.

Oh hell no.

Spitefully, I reached for my own phone and aimed it at him. Clearly, these were the etiquette rules we were playing by, here.  If he was going to internet-shame someone for telling him to keep it down, it might be an equally dick move to snap a picture of him and let the internet know what a jerk he was, but it certainly felt like a justified move.

Eventually, he sensed my dubious stare, and turned to give me what I’m sure he thought was a conspiratorial smile.  Look at me, he probably thought.  I’m showing this old asshole.

I intensified my dubious stare into a straight-up scowl, so there could be no misreading.  “Why are you bothering him?” I stage-whispered.

The guy just shrugged, angling his phone toward me so that I could see that the screen was actually dark.

Too late, buddy, I thought.  The damage is already done.  If you can’t bite, don’t growl.

I tried to go back to what I was doing, but the guy was committed to pretending to film a total stranger, and that meant he was leaning into my field of peripheral vision.  Enough is enough, I decided.  We are not doing this all the way home.

The conductor came around to take tickets, and the guy’s posture became much more relaxed as he pretended to be browsing the internet.

When the conductor got to me, there was a quiet exchange of smiles as he recognized me as a regular, but I stopped him before he could move on.

“That gentleman has been harassing other passengers,” I said clearly, my voice piercing the library-like silence.

“Which one?” The conductor asked.

“This guy in the Cubs shirt, right here.”

I had broken the code of honor in speaking, but apparently I was forgiven: the citizens of the Quiet Car had only been waiting for someone to break the seal, and the flood gates opened.

“He didn’t like hearing that this was the Quiet Car!” One lady chimed in.

“He was video taping other passengers!” Said another.

“They’re drunk!  Throw ’em out!” Yelled a regular with a 20 ounce can of Miller Lite, who may or may not have been drunk himself.

“Sir, I was just browsing Instagram–” phone guy stuttered.

The conductor was having none of it.  “Sit forward.  Put your phone in your lap.  Don’t pick it up again.  I’ll be watching you.”

To my astonishment, the drunk Cubs fans complied.  For the rest of the ride, I was able to Facebook in peace as they sat quietly, facing forward.  At one point, they erupted in a quick bout of snickering, but I didn’t feel any eyes on me, so I figured it was fine.

Mercifully, they got off at the first stop, but not without firing a parting shot.  “If you’d mind your own business more, maybe you’d have a husband!” Phone guy yelled.

I chuckled sarcastically.  I’m in absolutely no hurry, I thought.

“If you weren’t so fat and ugly, maybe you’d have a husband!” His female friend yelled.

Okay, that was the line.

The Quiet Car exploded in a cacophony of noise unlike any I’d ever witnessed.

“Get off the train!”
“Good riddance, assholes!”
“Get out of here, idiots!”
“Shut up and get lost!”
“You wanna start something?” That was Miller Lite guy, who had finished his beer and was rising from his seat to menace the couple as they squeezed past.

“You’re adorable,” I told the pair.  “I can’t wait for you to leave.”

Unphased, the drunkards continued yelling middle-School level insults at various passengers on their way out.  “Those flowers are pretty, too bad you’re not!” Is an example of the biting remarks we had to bear.

Finally, they were gone.

The citizens of the Quiet Car met each other’s eyes and nodded grimly to each other, then returned to our individual, silent pursuits.

Maybe tomorrow would be the day we didn’t have to go through this sort of thing.