October morning. Accidentally, we emerge from the subway and into a rally for the guy who hawks red hats. 

I hate that I am afraid, because that’s what they want. But I guess it worked. I am afraid of the zealots, the ones who show up at an event like this. I am afraid of people who seem addicted to cynical brutality. Probably they would just laugh in my face. 

I approach a listless cop and ask, How do we get inside Penn Station?

As we shuffle through the crowd, I observe the almost comical haughtiness in the faces we pass. It reminds me of a child’s pride in a decorated professional sports team. Maybe that’s as deep as it goes, psychologically. Then I see a young red-hatted man following a homeless man with a video camera. The homeless man yells, the red-hatted man laughs, and continues his pursuit.

The police have erected barricades along Seventh Avenue to contain the masses trying to cross the street. They drag the metal back and forth as the lights change, to allow cars to proceed. 

When the light turns red, the cops begin to push the barricade back in place. We stop just shy of the curb. Three different men, in their similar apparel, shove their way to the front. They are all haranguing the officers about how they should be allowed to cross—for various reasons. I’m a firefighter! I hear one of them shout. They seem to be oblivious of each other. Two are forced behind the barricade to wait (the third ignores the police officer and bolts into traffic). One of the guys left behind complains noisily about the impediment of his progress. His narration has the quality of a voiceover. How unfair, for this protagonist to have to sit through a light cycle to cross the street. 

Comical, of course. Comical, but I’m still wary of him. 

We finally descend into Penn Station, where it is oddly quiet, but I can’t relax. We’re scrolling our phones, trying to figure out how we missed the news of this huge, disruptive spectacle. (We don’t watch the news, that’s how.) I spend the day dreading the journey back. 

*

And it’s as bad as I fear. Everyone leaving Penn Station is being funneled toward the Eighth Avenue exit, which has created a horrible, crushing bottleneck. I try to breathe slowly. The crowd is moving and I can see the door. One foot in front of the other. 

When we get outside, things aren’t much better. There is nowhere to go, the streets are blocked by bodies and barricades. Police are everywhere. 

I approach a listless cop. How do we get out of here?

I resist the urge to run down 34th Street to Seventh Avenue. My partner puts his hand on my shoulder (the thing he does when I need to go slower). We reach the intersection, the familiar temporary gate of the morning. The light is red. I breathe, settle into my shoes. 

And realize I am standing quite close to a prim middle-aged woman. The first thing I think is that she is out of place. Then I see one of those blue wooden NYPD barricades between us; she’s on the other side, but there are so many people that we are nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. She’s wearing a vest, a small brown scarf, a short hairstyle. She stands alone with a smallish homemade sign that says H-A-R-R-I-S-W-A-L-Z. She seems vulnerable, easily pushed or punched. But that’s my lens. Remember: I am afraid of the zealots. 

The pressure bearing down all day suddenly finds a release. Maybe it’s sentimental, maybe it’s worse than sentimental, but this woman has cut a hole through me. I say aloud—because it’s exactly what I’m thinking—“You’re braver than I am.”

As the police pull back the metal, setting us free, the woman turns to look at who has spoken. She appraises me with resoluteness—if not a little contempt. “It doesn’t take much,” she says. Or, really, spits.