Someone once told me that how you spend the first day of the year depends how you will spend the rest of the year.

January 1, 2009 I awoke with a hang-over and thought about heading over to the 10th Street Bath to sweat out the poisons of December 31, 2008. Recovery seemed the perfect tone for the new year, except I rolled over on my side and fell back to sleep. Lethargy ruled the day. I read THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE CIA until 3pm and then dressed for a late lunch on West 90th Street.

It was at an Episcopal church. The pastor was a woman in her 40s. I had been invited by her cousin, an actress from Quebec. My hang-over dissipated with the second glass of wine and my body was replenished by ham and lentils. The conversation was entertaining and by 7pm I felt almost human.

This was my New Years.

Friends, fine food, and wine.

I left the soiree early and took the Lexington Avenue south toward Union Square.

At 59th Street a large crowd got on the train. Most of them were young. Two Brazilian young men spoke with six well-dressed black women. They were laughing, as if they had spent a good first day of the year, then the taller Brazilian backed away from the women with a raised right hand. He was giving them the finger.

“Putas. In my country I could kill you for rejecting me and the police would give me a medal.” He was drunk, but several newspapers had reported on the noblisse oblige the police accord macho behavior. Only this wasn’t Brazil and I told him, “Boyo, soy tranquilo. No one wants any trouble.”

He muttered something under his breath and his friend sat next to him.

I got up and moved closer to the group. A young black man in a leather jacket next to me mumbled, “This ain’t over.”

The women lagued innocently, but the tall Brazilian got offense jumped from his seat to run down the train. Several feet before the girls he leaped in the air to kick at the women. This feat proved his undoing. He slipped and fell to the floor, but rose to his feet with something in his hand. The girls pushed him away. I tried to restrain him, but he cut my hand with the sharp object.

Badly.

My plans for the first day of the year changed with my kicking him in the stomach.

He went down and I made sure he stayed down. The black man and I pummeled him with fists and boots.

At the next stop the black man and I tossed the unconscious attacker from the train onto the platform. I taught him a few more lessons about manners. I threw off his friend onto his knees too, booting him in the face for not controlling his friend. The first one was in convulsions. THe second laid still.

I asked the women if they were okay.

Two were crying, but neither had been hit. One pointed at my hand. It was bleeding badly.

Before they could thank the black man and me, a squad of cops hustled onto the platform. They surveyed the two fallen men and questioned the women about the incident. I stuck my hand in my pocket to hide the blood. Thankfully none was on the floor.

“That guy attacked me.” The prettiest one explained to a rookie policeman.

“And how they get laid out?” The cop looked in my direction. The woman’s eyes met mine and she said, “I didn’t see anything.”

“And what about you?” The cop’s query was directed to the black man and me.

“All I saw was that guy attack them. They did nothing to deserve it.”

“Me too.” The black man followed my lead.

“So you saw nothing?”

“Not a thing.”

THe first Brazilian’s tremors were lessening.The engineer announced that the train was leaving the platform. The cop knew something was wrong, but only because we might have done something right.