It was almost unbelievably similar. There I was, standing in a BART car, going in to San Francisco for my day’s work. I’d already lost two of three games of backgammon to my PalmPilot and was well on my way to a .250 average when I heard what sounded like crinkling cellophane or a large shrink-wrapped package being opened. I turned and didn’t see anyone moving beyond the normal vibrations of a train in motion.
Not plastic, the sound was water splashing; incongruous in a BART car in full motion. Then I realized what was happening. There in the packed car, was a guy - clearly drunk and disheveled - kneeling and taking a leak against the car door. Everyone around him seemed to be ignoring him, and I figured that would probably be a reasonable way to handle the situation as well, but instead I half-shouted, "Yo!" at which he turned and looked at me through half-mast eyes and offered virtually no expression in reply.
When he was finished, he zipped up, stood and asked me if I had a problem with him. "You don’t piss on a train." I said. "Hey, I had to go!" "Then you get off and piss in the station. They have restrooms there."
After he warned me not to f*** with him, and I put down my things so that my hands would be free, as he had walked over and was now standing within my safety zone. I was not figuring to give him any clear and unimpeded shots at me. When he raised his hand to point in my face, it was almost like one of those gentle shomen-uchi’s we give each other when we’re flowing right through our ikkyo/nikkyo/sankyo/yonkyo sets. I didn’t engage him, but I brought my arm up to match his motion and held it there as he continued to gesture and talk. My arm and my mind were relaxed, ready to act but holding off until it was necessary to do so.
I don’t know if he would have punched me without my arm and hand there, but as it happened, there was no attack and thus no reason to use the techniques that I’d been practicing for years and years. Then again, part of what I’d been studying all of that time, really since the time of those juniors classes taught by my first Aikido teacher, was how to not use the techniques themselves, but to avoid the fight itself when possible.
Being a physically large human being, I don’t often get threatened with physical violence, so most of my real-world practical Aikido experience has consisted of falling safely a few times after losing my balance during asphalt sporting events. This situation had the potential of being different, though.
He walked back to his spot and poked words at me a while longer until his female companion started telling him to shut up in no uncertain terms. I knew that the next critical point would be when it was time for me to leave the train. He was positioned between me and the door, so I figured that he might at least try a parting swat or spit at my back. As the train slowed, he had moved and was actually standing in the middle of the aisle. I figured that I’d try the honest and open approach first, so I asked him, "Are you going to let me get off the train?" To my surprise, he backed away and motioned me past as if he were the doorman at the Fairmont. A drunk doorman, to be sure, but definitely not offering any more threats, aside from the constant theme of not messing with him, to which his companion kept responding by shouting for him to "Shut the f*** up!" and to stop "acting like a baby!"
I left the train and notified the BART agents that they’d need to do a cleaning job on car 718, and related the incident to them. Their security teams were otherwise occupied, so it was highly unlikely that the couple would be detained, but at least the officials knew that there was work to be done on the car itself.
As I walked to my client’s office from the Montgomery station, I reflected on how similar my experience had been to the famous story by Terry Dobson, a gifted teacher who had been a student of the founder of Aikido. I hadn’t been looking for an opportunity to "take him apart," but neither had I been the old man who was "softly stroking the filthy, matted hair" of the laborer at the end of the story.
I had been the only one willing to call the guy on what he was doing and register a legitimate complaint directly with him, which I felt was appropriate. And I was able to do so without going the extra step of goading him into a fight. But I wasn’t able to break through and make things all better. I guess that means I’m probably somewhere in the middle; not an average disconnected citizen turning off the world when it gets unpleasant, but not a miracle-worker or a saint, either. But I can be comfortable with that - for now.
- © 9/29/99