They say that violence never solved anything. I am here today to tell you that this is a bold-faced lie.

      It was while I was waiting for the F at 14th Street late one November evening that I learned this lesson—that violence can bring people together in a way peace and love rarely do. Outside, the night was laced with fog eddies that swirled red leaves through black gutters. A sheen of light rain glittered on the sidewalk. Inside the station, the air was warm and heavy as a jungle. It was 3:15 am, my boyfriend had just broken up with me, and I was riding the subway home from his apartment because he hadn’t offered to pay for a cab, and I was broke. 

     Okay, he wasn’t really my boyfriend, or at least, only in the postmodern sense, where sleeping with someone every other weekend for a month (read: twice) constitutes a relationship. So in that sense, he hadn’t broken up with me so much as he’d rolled over and fallen asleep. And he hadn’t failed to pay for my cab so much as he’d failed to wake up when I slipped out of bed, dressed in the dark, and tiptoed out the door. I was broke, though—that much at least was true. I was also slightly drunk, and more than a little angry. Yet another failed relationship, I muttered bitterly into the collar of my coat.  

     But who could there be, on a lonely Saturday night, in a sweaty underground train station, at 3:15 in the morning, to direct my anger toward? Not my ex-boyfriend—he wasn’t there, after all. Not the homeless man in the floor length leather trench coat, drinking from a bottle of Jack and peeing on a pile of newspapers. No, I couldn’t direct my anger at him, for fear he’d direct something much more tangible at me. The older Hispanic woman and her grown son (young lover?) were also out of the running; they appeared to be engaged in a heated argument of their own that involved a lot of loud sighing and aggressive whispers. The hipster girl slumped on a bench several feet away, staring soulfully into the folds of her American Apparel leggings, seemed like a good option momentarily, but when I tried shooting her an irritated glare she hit me with the meanest look I’ve ever seen on a 98 pound woman.  

     As I glanced around the station looking for an appropriate subject for my rage, I was struck with a shocking revelation: everyone else was looking for the exact same thing! The Hispanic woman and her son or lover had each other to vent their anger on, the hipster girl had me, and the homeless man, I suppose, had the newspapers. But what about the middle aged professional woman in the black suit and brown boots? In a perfect world, she’d realize that she had no one but herself to blame for her fashion faux pas, but this, my friends, was not a perfect world. The woman’s beady eyes darted around the station, angry, searching. 

     And what of the two Connecticut frat boys, drunk, going home together instead of with postmodern girlfriends? Or the fat woman with the Victoria’s Secret shopping bag and the haunted expression? Who, in this lonely train station, did the five foot tall construction worker have to heap his sorrows on? Who could the off duty hot dog vendor blame for his despair? 

     In fact, I now realized, the air in the train station was not ripe with billowing heat, or exhaust fumes, or urine—it was ripe with tension. The smell wafting up from the tracks was not the scent of spilled sodas and two month old Chinese food—it was the smell of frustration, fury, the yearning for petty revenge. I flipped up the collar of my wool coat, wanting to look tough, needing to hide. 

     Then a scream pierced the muggy jungle air. I looked to my left. Was it the homeless man? No, he was still silently peeing. I whipped my head to the right. Was it the Hispanic woman and her male companion? No, but they had heard the scream as well, stopped arguing, and looked up. 

     Once again, the scream ripped through the station. Now everyone was looking up, searching for the source of the noise. What reason could there be for such a scream? It was not a cry of loss. It was a cry of violence, of carnage, and it was coming not from the platform, but from the very tunnel itself. We, the people of 14^th Street station at 3:16 am, moved as one body toward the edge of the platform and peered over the brink to scan the tracks. 

And there they were, two rats, tackling each other and emitting battle cries. Were they fighting or f***ing? Either way, it was an act of violence. They nipped and spit, they clawed and scratched, they escaped and gave chase. We’ll call them Pat and Jamie—two non-gender-specific names, to cover all the bases.  

     Pat hunkered down and Jamie caught him/her by the back of the neck, biting deep and pummeling poor Pat in the stomach with a strong pair of hind legs. The hot dog vendor gasped. The fat woman gripped her Victoria’s Secret shopping bag ever more tightly. Then Pat flipped over and threw Jamie several feet away, where he/she landed, shrieking, on top of an old shoe. The Connecticut frat boys threw their fists in the air, hooting with delight. But all was not lost for Jamie, who scrambled immediately to his or her feet, took a running leap, and landed, sumo wrestler style, on Pat’s back. A cheer went up from the crowd. People made eye contact with each other, began to smile.  

     As Pat and Jamie fixed their claws into each other’s stomachs and rolled helter-skelter across the tracks, the short construction worker traded possible tactics and maneuvers with the business lady in the brown boots and black suit, who turned out to know quite a lot of wrestling terminology. The fat lady set down her shopping bag and shot a heavy-lidded glance at the hot dog vendor. The homeless man grinned toothlessly at his bottle of Jack, and the hipster girl met my hopeful gaze with a shy smile. 

     By the time the train thundered into the station, no one cared which rat had won, or which rat had lost. We were all just gleeful at how viciously they had played the game. And when the doors opened, we piled on—still as strangers, but no longer as enemies. We were strangers in the night, exchanging glances. We were weary travelers, each with a different destination, but all staying at the same motel. I felt purged of anger, unified with humanity. And it was due entirely to that most illusive of forces—violence: the tie that binds.

Jessamyn Ansary is a native San Franciscan who has recently relocated to the East Village to pursue writing. Her poetry and fiction have been published in The Oakland Review and Bellwether magazine, and most recently, she sold a short screenplay to Nick Entertainment. Jessamyn currently works in television, but doesn't own a television.