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It wasn’t really a case because no one hired me, I wasn’t paid, and it didn’t take place in Blandsville. It occurred on a train I boarded at Union Station in Toronto where I had just enjoyed a three-day vacation. It is hard not to like a city with a well-populated zoo, a fine art gallery, a varied museum, and the CN Tower, along with several major league sports teams, although they seldom win. Of course, Blandsville had teams too (and they seldom win).
I put my one bag in overhead storage, sat down in the window seat, and opened my ever-present book. A big man with a perennial sneer rushed down the aisle and occupied the seat next to me, muttering unkind comments about a taxi driver who had almost made him miss his train. A moment later the train started. He looked at his watch: “Two minutes late,” he grumbled.
A little old lady came down the lurching aisle. She put out a hand to keep her balance and accidentally touched my seatmate’s shoulder. “Watch it, you old cow!” I’m sure she would voluntarily have touched a coiled rattlesnake rather than this rude rube.
He looked at my book. “Readin’,” he scoffed, “a hobby for sissies.”
Not reading, I thought, a pastime for morons.
The conductor came through the car, checking tickets. The complainer couldn’t find his at first, but he finally located it in his inside jacket pocket. I was hoping he wouldn’t find it so that he would be put off the train, preferably while it was moving.
A young woman came along the aisle pushing a refreshment trolley. The complainer and I each had a coffee and a sandwich. Mine were fine, but his coffee was not warm enough, his sandwich stale. As I was putting my cardboard cup and sandwich wrapper in the trash bag provided, he dropped his onto the floor.
He looked at my book, A History of Early Greek Philosophy, but apparently he couldn’t read the title because he asked: “Who dun it?”
“Socrates.”
“Was he the butler?”
“No, he was a teacher.”
“I hate teachers.”
I suspected that a lot of teachers weren’t very fond of him either.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m retired,” I said evasively.
“What did you do?”
I hesitated. “I taught high school.”
“I knew I disliked you.” He stood, grabbed me, and pulled me into the aisle. “I’m gonna punch you out, teach.”
He cocked his big right fist – I think it’s called telegraphing a punch – and began to deliver the father of all blows. Just then the train started around a curve and I took an involuntary step backwards to keep my balance. His fist missed my jaw by an inch and his momentum carried him around and onto the floor. As he fell, his right wrist hit an armrest with a sickening crack. It’s broken for sure, I thought.
Several phone cameras clicked as they recorded the brief fight.
“Wow!” said one man, “That’s the fastest punch I’ve ever seen!”
“It was so fast that I didn’t see it and my camera didn’t catch it.”
I didn’t tell him why neither he nor his camera saw it.
The man lay on the floor moaning and complaining until the conductor helped him into a seat where he continued to moan and complain.
At the next stop, two policemen took our names, addresses and brief witness statements, then left with the man, on their way to jail by way of a hospital.
I detrained at Blandsville and went to my office where Hank had a cup of real coffee waiting. I hoped that the town had not been overwhelmed by crime in my absence.
“You had a call from Ellie Mosynary. She’s President of HELP.”
“HELP!”
“Yes. Heroines Engaged in Laudable Projects. They run different events to raise money for charities. They’re having a night of boxing and wrestling and she wondered if you’d like to participate as a competitor or referee.”
“Definitely not,” I said. Like Rocky Marciano, I wanted to retire a winner.
