I think my favorite thing about this account is the way that this strong, independent young woman is actually annoyed by the realization
that no one feels any particular urgency about solving her problem for her:
The crazy man on the subway told me I was lucky he hadn’t punched me in the face. But by then, I was starting to get annoyed. What would it take for one of the many idle people sitting on this train to interfere? The threatening man seemed to have Rip Van Winkled himself to 96th Street straight from a 1957 Buddy Holly concert for the sole purpose of pouncing on me, a defenseless girl (with glasses).
It wasn’t until I launched into another expletive-laden defense that I realized, the people in my train car didn’t know if he was the crazy person—or if I was.
I was living in Washington D.C. at the time, and as a female in my early twenties, I had come to expect sympathy, if not assistance, from strangers in difficult situations.
" I had come to expect sympathy, if not assistance, from strangers in difficult situations." You don't say. I wonder why that might be?