I'm riding the train, running on the fumes of three sleepless nights, headphones set to Television's iconic Marquee Moon. Across the aisle, I see a young woman pressing herself to the wall of the train while the middle-aged man next to her leans in towards her, talking, smiling. She doesn't know him. I can see how uncomfortable she is. From the W.C. Fields bulb of a nose, and the tallboy concealed in a plastic bag, I can tell that he's drunk. And, moreover, he is a drunk. I turn off the music, imagining that I will come to her rescue, declaring loudly, "Buddy! I don't think she wants to talk to you!" But instead I listen. He's telling her about his daughter. She's so beautiful. She's very smart. She told him his was the best dad in the world. She did. In fact, one time she got him a t-shirt that said that. She studied forensic science. She doesn't drink or do any drugs, but she doesn't mind if he has a beer. The girl turns to him finally and says, "Who you gonna talk to when I get off the train? Yourself?" He smiles and agrees, "Yeah. That's what I do. When there's no one else to talk to, I talk to myself." She gets off the train. He smiles after her, then rifles through his ratty backpack. And I never say anything to him because my heart has broken for him a little.
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