The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club…
This morning, on the train ride to Manhattan, a fight broke out at the front of the car. It started as a heated argument between two men over jabbed elbows or something stupid, but it quickly escalated into a fist-fight in the aisle. One of the men wound up with a nosebleed. We stopped at Jamaica and the conductor called the police, who took both men, one of their friends, a witness, and a woman who had either been accidentally hit or somehow else involved off the train. I crossed platforms with a few other people and caught another express train to New York, happy just to be away from it all. I was at work only a little later than expected, and the one or two drops of blood on my jacket seem to have washed off with the rain. There are worse commutes, obviously, but I never thought I’d miss the dull simplicity of mechancial troubles.