The guy in the golf shirt with the khakis and the striped golf umbrella thrusts it at the door as we head downtown, then begins to aggressively whistle a tuneless song. One note, over and over, with occasional forays to the adjacent higher or lower notes, just to muddy things further.
He dashes off the train at Canal Street, his upswept hair (almost a pompadour) bobbing as he runs, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
The entire car seems to relax, as if he had held us in a spell for a moment, for no reason but capricious, nasty whim.
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