Out of the corner of my eye riding on the F train I observe an interaction between a frail, disheveled-looking woman in her mid-fifties and a man in a business suit. They’re sitting opposite one another, and a study in contrast: he’s well-composed, even stoical; she’s got a pile of her belongings on the seat next to her and a walker. She pushes the walker to the side in order to reach down and gingerly pull off a slipper: her foot is bandaged. She winces in pain, starts explaining to the man in the business suit her how she’s just had it operated on, how much pain it causes her. He nods slightly now and then in acknowledgement, but mostly stares straight ahead. Then the door between cars suddenly slides open and a man barges into the train car. He’s carrying a cane, and he wields it like a weapon. ‘Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, sorry to disturb you, I’m homeless and handicapped.’ His voice is booming, and he marches down the center of the aisle like it’s his own living room. I get up to leave – my stop has arrived – and as I’m exiting I hear the woman say to the man in the suit, ‘How’s he handicapped? I’m handicapped! You don’t see me walking around, asking for money!’