Last night, as I often do, I took a ride on New York’s subways and the L.I.R.R. I was confronted by the usual cast of characters~the bad musician, the disgruntled black radical on his soap box, and the young woman who routinely loses control of her bodily functions in one of the cars.
“Just once,” I told the conductor, “I’d really like to see a halcyon scene like that inside these cars.”
“Sir,” he explained. “That’s a Willoughby moment. We pass by here daily so each passenger can enjoy a respite from all the inevitable insanity.”