A loud voice, an Irish brogue “At least there’s one real man on this train!” I let my hair fall over my eyes, to provide subterfuge while I scan the car. I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a challenge, but my fixin-to-get-ninja-on-someone’s-ass alarm is going off. Peering through the crowded train I find him, his clothes are clean and new, he’s not a streeter. His rough large face is flame red and as he asks the two Caribbean women what they are knitting I am not sure if he is drunk or just foreign. As he prepares to exit, he tells them “You’re on your own now!” and I can smell it as he passes by me. Pissed out of his mind at 10AM.

Out on the sidewalk I see a couple embracing. They are dressed in the clothing of the day laborer, their tiny stature tells me they come from an underdeveloped country, of generational food scarcity. They part, and in Spanish I hear her promising to meet him again at 7 that evening. I can only see the side of his face, the apple of his cheek, it’s curve intimating the enormity of his smile.

And now I am back on the train and there is an angel in this car. He must be coming off a night shift. He is angular and angled across two seats in the corner. His construction boots, work pants, t-shirt are filthy, caked in dirt. His head is thrown back, deeply asleep, and his clean face is a shining restful beauty.