He was sad, middle-aged, heavy-set, and hobbling along with a cane and one leg in a plastic brace. I leaned over onto the kids bouncing around near their seated mom and the man squeezed past me. A young man gave up his seat and the sad man eased himself down.
I looked at his face. He yelled “Don’t you fuckin look at me, after the day I had, or I’ll…” He ran out of words. I stayed silent like the rest of the train and he calmed down.
It was like seventh grade. That was the first year when some boys, strangers to me in the new school, would come up to me and be as aggressive as they could manage. I didn’t understand until I noticed that they were about a foot shorter than me. They never articulated what their problem was, but they all had that one thing in common. Nowadays, grown men are socialized enough to keep it to themselves, but it might still be in there somewhere.