Reflections on the impact that lawlessness—and an inescapable awareness of it—has on society and the psyche
The man in the green hoodie wanted to show off his knife. The weapon he flicked open was a large foldaway with a curved blade, illegal in New York City, no matter its length; the setting for his performance was the uptown D train, going express from Columbus Circle to 125th Street. There was a full moon in the sky, and underground, as so often now, there were disturbances: fights broke out, insults were hurled, the air was thick with barely suppressed violence. Protests earlier that day had brought part of the metropolis to a standstill. A group of demonstrators, riled by the accidental death of a mentally ill homeless man with an outstanding arrest warrant and a history of violence, had shut down the subway at East 63rd Street and Lexington Avenue for nearly an hour, blocking doors and occupying the tracks to prevent trains from entering or leaving the station. Now, a late Saturday night was bleeding into predawn Sunday, a fragile metal shell was hurtling through a lighted tunnel under the earth, and in the conductor’s car, a show of prowess was being put on. “My arm doesn’t move, bro.” Holding the knife at his side, the man in the green hoodie opened the blade discreetly, with a small movement of his hand. “If my arm doesn’t move and you’re making eye contact with me, you won’t see shit until it’s too late.” Several times he opened and closed the blade before his friend’s eyes, feinting with it, brandishing it in full view of half a dozen riders. His dreadlocks swung heavily as he moved. He explained with gusto how he might stab someone to death.
