Ending my commuter relationship with public transit in Washington, DC, a few years ago was a huge relief. Stepping on the train at almost any time of day was like playing roulette. Is it going to be this time? Or maybe on my way back?
Whether it was passed out drug addicts, human filth encrusted vagrants, obviously insane people, or flat out criminals, the question always hung in the air: Is today the day I have to fight crime?
Several, and I mean dozens, of rides in that final year seemed close. A couple tatted up riders on a busy train openly smoking marijuana. Had children boarded, I’m not sure I’d have been able to stop myself. A drunk (and still openly drinking) man in the middle of the afternoon threatening to bludgeon an elderly, homeless man who was clearly in a drug-induced sleep. Screaming in his face. Thankfully, other nearby riders bid him to “shut up and sit down.” There was one time I stood up and placed myself between a mother and her two adolescent girls, clearly tourists, and a ranting maniac brimming with potential violence.
He kept saying something to the effect of having “had enough” with “white people.” The girls were visibly terrified.
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