I slowly edged towards the confrontation. After all, the elderly man had temporary control of the punk. But not for long. I could see that struggle was truly getting started and the tables looked like they were about to turn. The other passengers were starting to move away.

    What should I do?  I could call 911. I am on the train, think, no service underground. I’d bring attention to myself. Stop the rambling and just do something, coward.

That’s it! I grabbed my cell phone and, while his back was turned to me, I pushed it against the back of the punk’s head.

“Don’t make any sudden moves. You are out numbered. Keep your hands where they are and get to hell out of here.”

My lips were involuntarily moving. My hands were shaking and my legs were butter, melting under the weight of my body.

     The train pulled into Borough Hall Station. The young punk threw his hands up in the air, sucked his teeth and exited the train as the doors opened.

     The doors closed. I high-fived the elderly man and the crowd went crazy with exuberance and screams as if they had just experienced a bull fight.

     “I am glad that it’s over,” as I regained my confidence.

    “I could not agree with you more, I have to start taking the bus more often. This didn’t happen in the old days,” the elderly man said. He slowly sat back in his seat and continued to reflect on the good old days.

     The train rattled quickly through the tunnel and into Brooklyn where the reminiscing of the elderly gentleman and I separated forever. I exited at Utica Avenue Station but I can still hear his voice as it deliberately finds its way to my heart. I will never forget that cold muggy day when the elderly grey-haired gentleman in the black felt hat approached me at Wall Street. Neither will I forget that day on the train when I sat and listened, learned and borrowed inner strength from an elderly grey-haired gentleman in a black felt hat.