Chapter 5: When Things Get Physical

Then he did something I never expected.

He started shifting in his seat, building up momentum, and just like before, he started kicking the back of my seat—over and over.

Just like before, he started kicking the back of my seat—over and over.

It was relentless. At first it was just annoying, but as the minutes dragged on, the thumping became maddening, echoing up my spine and into my skull.

The worst part was, he had no intention of stopping.

He was like a kid denied candy, stuck on revenge. I looked at the time—twenty minutes of non-stop kicking. It was almost impressive, in a twisted way.

At first I endured it, but after twenty minutes, he was still at it, like a child.

I wondered if I’d stumbled onto a hidden camera show, if some producer was going to pop out and offer me a cash prize for putting up with the world’s most obnoxious passenger.

My back was killing me. I just wanted to lie on my side. When I turned, I suddenly felt something hit my head.

The pain was sharp—a jarring, humiliating shock that sent a flash of white across my vision. I twisted, not quite believing what just happened.

I looked up, stunned.

For a second, I thought maybe I’d imagined it—but no, there it was. His foot. On my head.

The man had actually put his foot on top of my head.

A hush fell over the immediate rows, the kind of silence that fills the air before a storm. My heart pounded, the humiliation burning hot in my chest.

Furious, I shoved his foot away, but he pointed at me and threatened, "Using your hands now? Want to fight? Where’s the conductor? Where’s the train police? Come here, there’s a fight!"

He raised his voice, turning our argument into a spectacle. The train seemed to slow, every head turning to see the latest drama. The conductor’s radio crackled somewhere down the car.

I was livid.

My hands trembled—rage, adrenaline, the frustration of being pushed to your limits and then blamed for reacting. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, to keep from shouting back.

How did I end up meeting such a jerk?

The question looped in my mind. Why me? Why today? Why, on the one weekend I needed peace, did I draw the short straw?

The conductor came over again. After I explained, she said helplessly to the man, "Sir, please behave yourself. Don’t put your feet on someone else’s head."

She looked exasperated, her patience stretched thin. She shot him a glare I’d seen teachers give unruly kids in detention.

The man replied, "Then make him sit upright first."

He crossed his arms, pouting like a kid denied dessert. The absurdity of the situation nearly made me laugh again.

The conductor said, "Can’t you be a little more tolerant?"

She tried for reason, her voice strained but steady. You could tell she’d been through every possible scenario on this job, but this one tested even her reserves.

He snapped, "Tolerant of what? I’m riding all the way to Chicago. Am I supposed to be miserable the whole way?"

His words were loud enough for the whole car to hear. The name ‘Chicago’ hung in the air—a reminder that this was only the beginning of a long ride for both of us.

As soon as I heard that, I broke down.

It was the last straw. I felt my shoulders slump, the exhaustion overwhelming. The thought of hours more in this pressure cooker was too much.

Because I was also riding all the way to Chicago. The thought of sitting with this jerk for the whole trip nearly made me lose it.

I looked at the conductor, my voice tight with desperation. There had to be another way. I couldn’t survive four more hours of this.