Remember when your high-school literature teacher taught you about unreliable narrators?
Yeah, I’m one of those.
I’m trying my best to remember all the details about the situation, but it was two or three or maybe even four years ago and rather gory, so naturally my mind has forgotten some small details that my imagination has filled in.
It was a warm early-summer afternoon; I know that part for sure. I also know there was a lot of blood and a lot of screaming.
I was standing on the Central and Camelback light-rail platform with one of my friends. We were exercising the only bit of freedom we had — using public transportation — and going downtown for a cup of coffee, bikes in hand.
The sun beat down, narrowly avoiding the already ineffective shade structures provided at the light-rail stop. It was hot and we were grumpy. We had already biked four miles and we were sweaty. We wanted our iced coffee — that was that.
When the overhead speaker system announced the next train would be arriving in two minutes, we could not have been more excited. A large iced coffee would be waiting at the Roosevelt and Central stop and it was all we could focus on.
Then we heard the screaming.
The light rail had just pulled into the station. The screeching of the brakes on the rails was loud, but the screaming was a few decibels louder. My friend and I looked at each other, startled and fearful.
Was this train safe to board?
The doors opened, releasing whatever fearful thing was so audibly locked inside.
The air seemed to freeze for a moment, and we hesitated, staring at each other as if asking, “Do we want to wait for the next train?”
The frozen air shattered when we heard a guttural, masculine cry.
“What the (expletive), man!”
A muscular man exited the light rail, hands clutching face, with blood running down his arms and dripping on the floor.
Petrified, we tried not to stare. But it’s not every day you see someone exiting the light rail after (presumably) being punched in the face. Who knew what kind of person would dare punch the clearly athletically-superior man?
A few clock ticks later, a young woman of average height, average weight and average build trailed behind, carrying a purse in one fist, the other balled up in the air.
Our eyes grew wide as we noticed her perfect, pink acrylic nails accenting her raised hand. We may have expected to see a fight, but this — this was a surprise.
A string of expletives followed the two as he ran away and she followed down the platform.
We shrugged, sidestepped the small puddles of blood and boarded the train. A public domestic dispute wasn’t going to keep us from getting our coffee.
Light Rail Confidential is a column written by anonymous ASU students who share their experiences surrounding public transportation — namely, the light rail. It is managed by journalism junior Danika Worthington and illustrated by kinesiology junior Rachel Ganger.
Contact the columnist at ddworth1@asu.edu
