It started on the train.
I am writing this in a gray cement room, on a shaky wooden table, while I sit on a metal chair. The chair was cold a few minutes ago. Two policemen are in the room with me. The younger one, all nerves and sharp creases, has said in his best TV detective voice, "Write it up." He has blond hair so thin you can see his scalp through his crew cut.
Do you remember, in New York City, that fat black man who shot a bunch of people on the train? I was there. I was sitting up front, so close I could hear his shallow breath before he started shooting. So close I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. I heard his defense was "black rage." I would have testified to that. He appeared full of rage.
The young policeman has one pimple in the middle of his forehead. He has just asked me to get to the confession part. I told him, if he wanted a written confession, he ought to shut up and let me write it. I will call him Zit from now on, just to piss him off. It worked! I know because I felt an angry snort of breath on the back of my neck. May I write my confession now, Zit?
I sat in the aisle seat. A pretty, in a nice way, woman sat in the window seat beside me. The car was full. There were children, and old men, and crazies, and a father and his adult son sitting together. They sat next to each other, but I knew they were father and son because only that combination could sit so close and have so much distance between them. The fat man, full of rage, was sitting up front right next to where one car joins another.
We made a stop. When we started moving again the man stood up and brought out his gun. Then two things happened at once. I heard the shot. In the confines of a train car it was so loud it was physically painful. The other thing that happened is that the woman's neck--the one sitting next to me--her neck shattered. From the corner of my eye, I could see the white skin burst apart. I saw the stream of blood before it covered me. Then it did. They always say "hot blood" in the movies and TV and stuff. They say it because blood is hot. It is hot, and wet, and sticky. It dripped under my clothes, and stuck my shirt to my skin. The man kept firing. More people died.
Zit's breath has changed on my neck. It is quicker. Do you think this is horrible? It is, but it is not the most horrible part, Zit. The most horrible part is yet to come. The shocker is coming right up.
No one said a word. At first, there was a scream or two, but they didn't last. He fired and fired. Then, finally, the gun went click.
Here comes the most horrible part, Zit. Are you ready?
He reloaded.
I felt your breath catch like you were saying, "Oh no! More people are going to die." You are correct, but you are missing the point. HE RELOADED. At that second, any one of us could have stopped him. I could have jumped up and tackled him. He probably would have beaten the shit out of me, but in hindsight, so what? A child could have stopped him long enough for others to join in. No one did.
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