Heading downstairs, I am all bundled up in my navy down jacket, the scarf my friend Rivki gave me, and the hat I bought in Montreal (I once drove to Canada in sub zero temperatures and forgot to bring one). I'm also carrying a backpack, a rare occurrence for me.
It's while crossing 186th Street that a Dominican girl with a very small nose, driving a white Hyundai, drives far enough into the intersection to make any pedestrian feel uncomfortable. She barely seems to notice as I awkwardly twist away from the Sonata.
I arrive at the platform just having missed a train, but another appears just one minute later. It is not crowded, and I choose a window seat next to a thin woman reading "The Tipping Point". I always sit next to women when I can, not because I am a subway pervert, but because they tend to be smaller than men and don't usually spread their legs when they sit.
I started reading "The Tipping Point" a few years ago. Although I liked it conceptually and would still recommend it, I only made it half way through. The woman turns the page beginning Chapter Three as I take Robert Ludlum's "The Apocalypse Watch" out of my bag. I am on Chapter Six.
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