by MARGUERITE SCHNEIDER
The West 4th Street subway station was dirty and smelly, with bits of people’s lunches and lives left there to decay. The subway system’s filthiness was a result of NYC’s bankruptcy during the mid-1970s, when there was little funding for trivialities like cleaning. The roar of the trains was unbearable to some, whose faces displayed their agony while they cupped their hands over their ears, as if doing so would reduce the din. It appeared to be a typical day for me, commuting home to Queens on the E train from classes at NYU. I was a working-class kid on scholarship, who couldn’t afford the dorm.
It was mid-afternoon, the time of day when the subways were used by very few people. The time when things that shouldn’t happen often did happen in the subways, despite that twilight was hours away.
I boarded the train and skimmed over my student newspaper, acting as if all was well, while being on guard. I glanced around, realizing that there were only four or five people on the car, there in body but not in mind. It was a time when the subway code of conduct was to hear, see, and speak nothing, to avoid possibly becoming either a witness or additional victim to a crime in progress.
At the next stop, another college student with a backpack, a young guy likely from The New School at 14th Street, boarded. He sat next to me despite that the car was largely empty, trying to read what I was reading, smiling at me. I glanced at him, with my best “I’m flattered, but no thanks,” look to end his attempt.
Next thing I knew, his hand was on my inner thigh, and he was kissing my arm.
I have a definite recollection of screaming at him to stop, glancing around at the passengers who acted as if they didn’t see or hear what was unfolding. There was no good Samaritan to come to my aid. The perpetrator likely counted on the passengers adhering to the subway code of conduct.
There is evidence that in moments of crisis, ordinary people can attain monumental strength due to an acute adrenaline rush. I believe this happened to me. I have a vague recollection that I picked up the perpetrator and hurled him, so that he landed in a different part of the subway car. He got up, looking like a bull in a bullfight who was enraged at the matador. Other than my initial scream to stop, no words were exchanged between us.
The length of time in that short trip between 14th and 23rd Streets seemed like an eternity. I rushed to the subway car door at the other end of the car, waiting for it to open. The perpetrator went to another subway car door, suggesting that he would get out and follow me if I left the car. We played a game of chicken. I would lunge a bit towards my door, indicating that I would exit at 23rd Street, and then backup, indicating that I would stay on the train. He mimicked my moves. As the train pulled into 23rd Street, we continued the game of chicken. As the train doors opened, we continued the game of chicken.
As the doors were almost closed, I managed to rush out onto the platform, clearing the doors completely despite the increasingly narrow opening, without causing them to reopen. I will never understand how I pulled off such a physical feat. He was trapped on the train without me. The bull raged at me from his cage as the train pulled away.
I was totally hysterical and breathing heavily, unable to concentrate, in no state to board another train to return home. People were staring at me. I must have appeared mentally unwell, as I was temporarily unwell. I found a pay phone and called my then-boyfriend (now husband), who was barely able to understand what I said but knew it wasn’t good. He left work quickly, saying it was due to an emergency, and met me.
Over a drink or two with him, I talked seemingly endlessly about the incident, which had lasted but a few minutes. I calmed down enough to board the subway with him to Queens, and returned quickly to my life that was dependent on the E train. But for the rest of the semester, I no longer took the subway at that time in the mid-afternoon, to protect myself from another encounter.
I notified campus and NYC police in person about the incident. But as it was the mid-1970s, their response was that I was lucky that I hadn’t been hurt, and I had no evidence of the attempted attack to press further. I wailed that this likely wasn’t the perpetrator’s first or last attempt, and he needed to be stopped or someone might get hurt, to no avail. That’s how it was back then. I can’t help but think of how Captain Olivia Benson of Law & Order: SVU fame would have directed her squad to set up a sting operation, and likely would have discovered a long history of predatory behavior in the perpetrator’s short life. While that’s only a TV show, I do believe it generally reflects changes in police practice regarding sexual predators. Today, I likely wouldn’t be told that I was lucky and dismissed.
Until I graduated, I scanned every subway car, every platform, for that guy, in a cautious, not paranoid, way. I did come across him once again, about a year after the incident, with his memorable curly blonde hair, blue eyes, light to medium built, and below-average height. After overcoming the initial shock at our second chance encounter, we glowered at each other from a distance, across the subway tracks. His demeanor was angry and frustrated. My demeanor was confident and alert. This time, he left me alone.
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After earning many degrees, working in many capacities, and attaining a notable academic publication record, Marguerite Schneider decided to satisfy her six-year-old self by writing creatively. Her short stories appear in literary magazines including Mocking Owl Roost and Persimmon Tree blogs, and anthologies including by Chicago Story Press and Pure Slush. Marguerite is again completing the “final” revision of her novel, Murder at St. Mark’s, a historical murder mystery. She enjoys gardening, yoga, reading, writing, volunteering, and walking her rescue dog, Murray. Marguerite, husband Rich, and Murray live in the Bronx and Hudson Valley, New York.
© 2026, Marguerite Schneider
Halfway Down the Stairs 