On the 6 train uptown. The train has been waiting in the station, and after I sit down, I hear someone yelling, ‘Hold that 6, hold that 6!’ A man stumbles into the train car and sits down opposite me. He’s in his mid-sixties, slightly disheveled, heavyset. As the train doors close he grumbles to me, or to no one in particular, ‘Could have cost me fifteen minutes.’ I avoid eye contact, thinking that he’s looking for someone to air his grievances to. Still, as the train leaves the station, I find myself stealing glances in his direction. He seems to be searching for something in the numerous pockets of his pants, his jacket, his shirt. He stands up, pats himself down, sits back on the bench seat, takes a drink of his container of juice, then sets it down and repeats the procedure. I notice his hands are shaking. Then finally he finds what he’s been looking for: a banana! He’s had a banana in his right waist pocket the whole time. Despite his shaking hands he carefully peels and proceeds to eat the banana; then, polishing off the small container of juice, he begins inserting the banana, one section of peel at a time, into the juice container’s narrow mouth. He’s nearly finished this ship-in-a-bottle task when I exit the train three stations later.