Amanda Filipacchi - Vapor

At 3:30 in the morning, after walking for hours, I went down into a subway station and sat on a bench on the deserted platform. I was not waiting for a train. My mind was blank, which had never happened to me before. I was actually having no thoughts. It was a little frightening. I was floating, completely lost, completely unattached to any belief, to any hope. Perhaps I had finally achieved the state of warm wax. Though somehow I doubted it. I lit a cigarette.

Three young businessmen walked in. As they passed my bench, they informed me that it was illegal to smoke in the subway. I ignored them. They inquired whether I was deaf. I ignored them. They proceeded to utter certain words such as bitch and suck . I felt at peace. I stared into space, wondering if they meant suck in a literal sense (as in “suck me”) or in a slang sense (as in “life sucks”). As they walked away I picked up bits of their musings: “Costume … insane asylum … Halloween … play … actress …”

That last word sharpened my despair. I uttered the word help in my head. I looked at the columns, at the ceiling, at my cigarette.

Suddenly, as if echoing my thought, a man screamed “Help!” at the other end of the platform. I looked.

“Help!” he screamed again, and I saw him, being attacked by two men who were pulling him down onto the tracks. He was trying to free himself, but they dragged him into the tunnel.

The three businessmen leaned over the edge of the platform and looked on.

“Should we call the cops?” asked one of them.

“You’re right. Go call,” said another.

“Yeah, but hang on a sec. I wanna see what’s going on.”

In my bag I had Red Pepper Spray that my mother had given me in case I was ever attacked. I took it out, walked to the edge of the platform, and jumped down onto the tracks.

It was as if I was responding to my own cry for help. Or, who knows, perhaps it was simply a convenient excuse for, and roundabout attempt at, suicide.

The businessmen exhibited curious indignation at my behavior, as if they had been personally, and terribly, insulted. They asked what I was doing, what the fuck was I doing, and who the hell did I think I was, Super Cinderella or something?

I can’t blame them for their harshness; after all, what must I have looked like, waddling down the train tracks, cigarette in my left hand, pepper spray in my right, wand tucked under my arm, dress dragging over the garbage, sunglasses on, wig and crown still in place.

I had trouble walking because I kept tripping over the front of my dress, which my hands were too encumbered to hold up. I therefore resorted to kicking the gown forward at every step to free my feet.

My emotional state seemed to have desensitized me. I approached the danger with strange indifference and detachment, something like lassitude. The sensation of fear was present, but only vaguely, like a faint pulse in someone dying. Even though I knew it was far from true, I almost imagined that if I were to be shot or stabbed, it would not significantly add to my pain.

The inside of the tunnel was so dark that I could barely make out the three vague human shapes, and at first it didn’t occur to me to take off my sunglasses, which I hadn’t realized I was still wearing. But even when I finally did realize it, I did not take them off, because I preferred not to see my opponents’ faces; I feared that if I saw what was before me I might suddenly lose my indifference and become terrified.

The attackers stopped moving and stared as I approached. They began to threaten me. I replied something along the line of, “Please release him or I will spray you.”

Then they made fun of my spray. They were under the mistaken impression that it was Mace, so I informed them that it was worse, that it was Red Pepper Spray.

The conversation started to flag, and I unconsciously took a drag on my cigarette, which, like the sunglasses, I hadn’t realized I was still holding.

Not knowing what else to do, and feeling it was too soon to spray them without having first tried a peaceful alternative, I pulled out of my bag the literature on the red pepper spray and read to them the scariest parts regarding the effects of being sprayed.

By that time I had taken off my sunglasses and had flung them aside, to be able to see the print on the instruction sheet, and when I was done reading and looked up at the men, I was less frightened by the attackers’ faces, than strangely annoyed by the victim’s sex appeal. He was being held by one of the men. His nose and lip were bleeding.

A physical struggle began between me and the other man, during which my wig came off in his hand. I was still not shooting my pepper spray, I don’t know why; I felt okay just holding it. I cannot wholly attribute my lack of concentration to the victim’s charisma, but it probably played a part. Thankfully though, I did have enough presence of mind to use my cigarette, extinguishing it on my assailant’s bare arm.

Before things got worse, they got better for a moment. The feel of the wand in my hand must have triggered old fencing habits, because when the attacker pulled out his switchblade, my arm lashed out in a familiar, oft-repeated motion, and with a quick flick of the wand, the knife leaped from his hand, rather theatrically, and went flying a few feet away.

Things quickly degenerated to the point where I had somehow been flung over the man’s shoulder and was beating his back with the wand, from which sparkles were flying off, attesting to my energy. But the blows were useless.

In the end, however, I did manage to use my spray. The bright orange pepper juice was more effective than I had anticipated, and it quickly put an end to the whole affair, not unlike the way I imagine a machine gun might have. The men fell to their knees, screaming and throwing up, their faces against the floor. The victim had been sprayed a bit too, which was unfortunate but inevitable, since he had been held closely by one of the assailants.

I picked up my wig, grabbed the victim’s arm, and helped him climb onto the platform. I led him up the long stairway, hugging my wig to my chest, perhaps for comfort. My legs were nervously springing me up, and I was dragging the man with more energy than I knew was polite. Who knew how quickly they would recover from the spray? Judging from my companion’s agony, however, they were probably not recovering too quickly.

I informed the subway teller that we were attacked and asked him if there was a bathroom we could use to rinse the pepper spray off of my friend’s face. He said no.

We hurried out of the station.

In the street, I looked around. All the stores were closed. An all-night supermarket shone in the distance. The man’s eyes were shut, and his head was bent as I guided him, telling him when to step up or down a curb. I also asked him if he knew the attackers. He shook his head.

In front of the supermarket there was a bench on which I helped him sit. I rushed into the store and looked for the bottled water section. I ran through the aisles like a swift bulldozer, my wide skirts mopping the floor as I went. My quest was slightly delayed when I slipped on a piece of lettuce while turning a corner. I collapsed on my side, but luckily didn’t get hurt because my dress cushioned the fall.

I finally found the bottled water section, and wondered if I should get an American or a European brand. The latter might lend a desirable air of sophistication to my person. Unfortunately the European brands only came in little bottles, and it would not have been reasonable to choose little bottles to rinse off a man in agony. But when have attempts at being attractive ever been reasonable? I picked up as many little bottles of Evian as my arms would hold and paid for them.