I grew up in NYC, which meant commuting through a daily gauntlet of weirdos, wisdom, and subway-car war zones. Every weekday, I rode the R train to high school — undersized, quiet, with the voice of a flute and the self-esteem of a folding chair.
Naturally, I got bullied. Not movie style beatdowns. Just relentless, low-grade torment: name-calling, wedgies, spitballs, and that hum of constant humiliation.
Then came Thursday.
At 36th Street in Brooklyn, I was doing my usual: trying not to be noticeable when a six-foot-two upperclassman built like a fridge yanked my knapsack — books, homework, snacks — and chucked it out the closing subway doors.
The train rolled on. Laughter filled the car. My face burned. My dignity? Gone with my Trapper Keeper.
But instead of rage, I felt strategy.
I wasn’t strong or loud. But I could plan.
A few days later, I found myself in a Chinatown shop, buzzing with fluorescent lights. Among the clutter, I spotted them. Bought them on instinct.
Then came my moment.
I got on the R train at Bay Ridge Ave Station. Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” in my headphones. Bag at my feet, like bait. Two stops later, he boarded — distracted by girls. Testosterone can make men blind.
As we pulled into 9th Street, I moved. Quiet. Calm.
Then… ‘Click.’
In two seconds, he was handcuffed to the center pole. I slipped out just as the doors closed. Like an underground spirit.
Then came the flailing. The panic. The girls staring, one laughing into her sleeve.
As the train pulled away, he saw me, Matty OHalloran on the platform. I didn’t say a word. Just raised one middle finger and let it speak.
INXS’s “New Sensation” kicked in. A moment of my life edited by the universe.
I still have that mixtape.
And I’ve never taken shit from anyone since.