Seymour salivated like one of Pavlov's dogs when the girls' field-hockey team got on Caltrain. Accompanied by their coach, Ms. Van Dyke, the dozen plus teenagers from Saint Xena's Academy had just boarded in Palo Alto for a league tournament in San Francisco.
The coach and most of the girls managed to find seats next to each other. Sally, aged 15, was the odd one out and the only seat left for her was next to Seymour.
He was sitting next to the aisle and made no effort to slide over toward the window. As she stepped over him, his eyes drank in the tanned young thighs bared between Sally's white knee socks and tartan skirt.
After she sat down, Seymour began to look her up and down. He took his time. He was in no rush. He liked the way her blonde hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, leaving a clear view of her high cheekbones, upturned nose, and pouty lips. He liked how she sat with her shoulders squared and back straight, showing off a bit of the adolescent pertness beneath her white-and-gold school jersey. He liked her calves and knees, as well as her thighs. He really liked her thighs.
Sally stared out the window of the train, never looking at Seymour. He sensed that she knew he was looking at her. She probably didn't like it but figured there was nothing she could do to stop him.
Seymour liked that too.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. The phone had a camera. Seymour extended his arm down between her legs and pointed the lens up her skirt. He started taking pictures.
At that very moment down in San Jose, Seymour's wife noticed that she was almost out of cigarettes. She called her husband to ask if he could pick up a carton on the way home.
Seymour's cell phone rang. Before he could pull his hand away, Sally's knees came together and clamped onto it like a steel trap. When he found he could not free himself from her grasp, he realized that he was no longer the predator. He was now the prey. His beseeching eyes, full of fear, met hers, full of hate.
"Pervert!" she snarled and delivered two powerful elbow smashes to his face. The first knocked him back in his seat. The second broke his nose. She then relaxed her knees and shoved the hapless Seymour out into the center aisle of the train car.
He went sprawling face down. His cell phone skidded down the aisle and came to rest at the feet of Ms. Van Dyke, who had gotten up to see what all the commotion was about. The jostling had put the phone in slideshow mode and its upturned display clicked through its owner's vast upskirt collection as a woman's voice on its speaker said, "Seymour? Seymour?"
Ms. Van Dyke raised her foot, and with elephantine pile-driver force, she brought it down upon the phone. The call from the wife was disconnected. The device that had stolen so much innocence was destroyed.
"Get him, girls," said Ms. Van Dyke.
With that, the entire team were out of their seats and descended upon Seymour. He had raised himself up to his feet but quickly fell flat again as punches, kicks, and blows from hockey sticks rained down upon him. The assault continued until it was halted by Ms. Van Dyke blowing her whistle.
"That's enough, girls," she said. "Now throw this piece of garbage off the train."
Seymour felt hands grabbing him from all side. He was hoisted up above the girls' heads and they began to march him toward the exit doors in the middle of the car.
A conductor came in and tried to intervene. Ms. Van Dyke moved to intercept him.
"Federal labor law entitles you to a fifteen-minute break," she said. I suggest you take yours now."
After sizing up both her bulk and her determination, the conductor decided to take her advice and quickly made his exit.
The train doors swung open. Seymour looked out at the ugly, squat tract homes whizzing by and the Tanforan mall off in the distance.
"San Bruno? I hate this town," he said.
"So do we," said the girls in unison and they tossed him off the train.
Seymour landed on the pile of rocks running along the side of the railroad tracks. After bouncing twice, he rolled to a stop on a dirt path between the tracks and the back fence to someone's yard. He tried to get up but every attempt to move revealed yet another broken bone.
High overhead, none other than Superman was on a routine patrol of the region. He saw the man thrown from the train and swooped down to investigate.
"What seems to be the problem, citizen?" he asked after landing and placing his hands firmly on his hips.
"Oh Superman, you've got to help me," pleaded Seymour. "Females have run amok. All I did was a little harmless upskirt and they've gone and taken the law into their own hands. From one man to another, I beg of you. Do something!"
"You have a valid point," said the crime-fighting Kryptonian. "But I have thought the matter over and decided not to care."
"Why not?"
"Well citizen, I have X-ray vision. I don't need upskirt."
And with a hearty "Up, up, and away!" the Man of Steel soared skyward, leaving poor Seymour to suffer and long for a simpler time when a man could quench his thirst for beauty without fear.
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