I sit down on a half-empty Q train car next to an older man who’s busy shouting into his phone. ‘What? What’s that you say? I can’t hear what you’re saying.’ I take out my book. An empty seat separates us, but this isn’t sufficient. The man continues shouting into his phone as the train leaves the station, but when it enters the tunnel the call drops. He slams down his phone: ‘Shit. That’s great, just freakin great. I’m gonna be late for the goddamn appointment and I can’t reach the goddamn clinic.’ For the next several minutes he mumbles angrily to himself as he searches around in his pockets, looking for a piece of paper or document. ‘Where the fuck is it? I just had the damn thing.’ I do my best to ignore his fumblings, but I find it impossible to concentrate. I sense him looking around the car for a sympathizer, so I stare fixedly at my book: there’s no way I’m going to allow myself to be sucked into the orbit of this crank. When we go over the bridge his phone is out again and he’s calling the doctor’s office. ‘I’m running late! Can you hear me? I said I’m running late but I’ll be there. What’s your name? What? Your name, sir, what’s your name? I said I’m asking you your name –’. After the next stop I feel a tapping on my arm. I sigh, and slowly turn to face the man. ‘You know the Canal Street station?’ he asks. ‘More or less,’ I say. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘I said yes, more or less. Why do you ask?’ My tone is unintentionally defensive. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘what I need to know is, can I get to the 6? Without leaving the station I mean.’ I assure him he can indeed make this transfer at Canal, tell him where to go once he’s in the station. He thanks me profusely for this bit of information. I nod and give him a half-smile, then go back to my reading. When we arrive at Canal Street he gets up, turns and thanks me again. Then he shuffles along on his way.