Trigger

       As the door of the train opens, I hear a burst of raucous laughter from inside, and a figure hurries out and hustles away. I lug my bags in and set them down between my feet as I cling to the rail at the top of the steps. I'm tired and frazzled; between the high cost of everything, the numerous gaps on the shelves, and my attempts to avoid the other stressed-out shoppers as they careen along the aisles, the experience of shopping has gone from merely irritating to hellish. But I'm only riding until the next stop, then after a steep trek up the hill I'll be home.

    As the train starts moving, I feel someone bump up against me from behind. I turn to see a tall, bald man with a long gray goatee standing an inch away from me. He sports a huge grin and reeks of booze. A bunch of young men are sitting nearby, watching. They are clean cut, unmemorable, nearly identical. They look like they could be in an ad for a community college, or an Applebees commercial. I move away from the man, careful not to knock over my bags. He moves with me and keeps pressing up against me. The young men laugh.

    "A little personal space, buddy," I say in what I hope is a lighthearted tone of voice.

    "Can I have a hug?" he says.

    "Not from me," I say.

    "I could really use a fucking hug," he pleads, eliciting an eruption of laughter.

    "Give the poor guy a hug," one of the young men yells.

      "Man asked for a hug," another says.

    "Boy, it's really crowded on this train," says yet another. "Look at this, there aren't any empty seats." They rise as one and crowd behind me, all of them pressing against me, chattering and screeching. I try to keep an eye on my shoulder bag as well as my groceries. The Goose Hollow stop is just ahead but it feels like it's a mile away.

    "I can't believe you won't give me a hug," the older man wheedles. Despite his intoxication, his icy blue eyes are piercing. He smiles like a shark.

    “That’s some cold-ass shit, man,” one of the pack says.

    "What does Jesus think about you not giving this man a hug?" another hisses, as the train slows down and comes to a halt. The door opens and I grab the handles of my bags and hobble down the stairs.

    "Think I'll get off here too," the tall man chirps. He jumps off behind me and, placing his palm lightly on my back, once again asks me for a hug, his voice almost a whisper. As I walk away he hops back on the train just before the doors close, to wild cheering.

    As the train slips away, I brush my back to make sure he hasn’t stuck anything there and pat my pockets. I picture shoving the man against the side of the moving train, which proceeds to tear the flesh from the side of his face. Or maybe his shirt gets caught in the door and he gets pulled alongside as it speeds away, his body bashed to pulp until there's nothing left but a wad of bloody rags on the tracks. I can picture the panicked look in his eyes as he realizes what’s happening, as well as the looks of horror on the young men as they witness an image that will haunt them the rest of their lives. I can hear the screams.

    Calming down, I think instead of all the withering comebacks that would have stunned them into silence. I flash on all the times I've been picked on, starting in middle school. I remember all the times I had rocks and acorns thrown at me, remember all the names yelled at me from passing cars. I marvel at how swiftly that familiar mix of terror and fury has bobbed up, as if it had been lurking just beneath the surface the whole time. 

    I like to think I'm a kind, tolerant person who tries to show empathy and compassion in my dealings with others. We are all hurtling together towards calamity, screaming in fear and blinded by our suffering. But as I make my way up the hill in the rain, I wonder: if I would have been carrying a gun back there, would I have pulled the trigger? 

    No. Of course not. 

    Of course not.