As I step onto the C train and take a seat on the bench a person is crossing the aisle in front of me. At first glance, based on the style of dress, I mistakenly assume the person to be a child, and I experience a mild shock when I realize they’re in their late fifties. Thin and frail – their legs seem to barely carry their weight, they’re carrying a worn-out, little girl’s scooter (pink with flowers), and wearing a short denim skirt (also with flower decals). The rest of the ensemble consists of a red corduroy blazer over a nondescript, stained blouse, cheap costume jewelry, high heels, and a paisley purse (also well-worn, dirty). They seem to be completely shut off in their own world, muttering silently and making eye contact with no one. The other passengers studiously avoid in their direction, though I catch several casting quick, furtive glances; I myself meanwhile find my gaze sweeping over them from time to time, hoping to gain a better appreciation of this eccentric self-presentation without making myself obvious, realizing as I do this that I’m complicit in the unspoken law of train decorum that demands that no one ‘notice’ anyone else.