The Black Knight

by Pamela Lazarus

     At my subway station, on intermittent days, there was a harmless looking old lady who traveled into the city, lugging a great bag of stuff. Following the rules, no eye contact was made.  One summer day upon leaving the office at 5:00 p.m., I was caught in a sudden, unexpected, heavy downpour of rain.  The street was suddenly covered with inches of splashing water, and wearing open-toed sandals was a pointless exercise in keeping one ’s feet dry.  So off came the shoes, the better to dash for cover.  But the first store with a canopy extending over the sidewalk was already crowded with refugees from the deluge.  No room at the shelter.  Ditto for the next two and last canopies.

     I was wearing my favorite dress that day, a fine-weight cotton, pale yellow, fitted sheath with some dainty embroidery on the front, under the scoop neckline and on the short, cap sleeves.  Unfortunately, it had no resistance to the downpour whatsoever, and the fine cotton, completely soaked, clung to
my body.

     I ran the block to the subway, down the stairs and into the waiting express train to Queens.  It was already full, with not a seat to be had.  But a pole at one end of the car was available, and so I clung to this as the train lurched from the station.  From a seat about ten feet away came a malevolent, strident voice.  “Whore!  Jezebel!”  I looked around for the source and aim of this weapon of a voice and found to my astonishment that it was the old lady from the Queens station, and that she was howling and pointing at me!  “Whore!  Stealer of Men!  Slut!  Jezebel! Sinner! You’ll burn in hell!” she screamed.  With nothing else to do on the long, boring non-stop ride to Continental Plaza, the passengers were watching this show with great interest.  I wanted to vanish, to leave the train, to become invisible, to crawl away, to die.  The next station’s escape was fifteen minutes of this agony away.

     Suddenly, to my further alarm, from the seats in front of me, a tall, handsome, young black man stood up.  He took off his elegant raincoat and without a word put it around my shoulders, then said  “Please, sit down."

     Mute, I complied.  He then placed himself squarely in front of my seat, and used his body to block the view of me from most of the passengers, especially from The Cursing Witch.  Not another word was spoken between us.

     Finally, we arrived at my destination.  I stood up and took off his raincoat.  “Keep it," he said.  I thanked him, thanked him and assured him I did not have far to go and returned the blessed coat.

     Out on the street, waiting for the bus, next to me was The Witch who again began her imprecations.  But I was covered in the bliss and protection of an elegant, though invisible, raincoat, and was able to ignore and even feel sympathy for the poor deranged creature.  That young man will always be my knight in shining black armor.
 

Born in London after World War II, Pamela Lazarus's family came to Queens by way of Canada. She now lives in New Jersey with her two children and four grandchildren.