I met him on the train. Well, it's more like I saw him. The first weekend of every summer he was there, crouched over his blue crates, like a pidgeon defending the last bread crumb in Central Park, savoring it. He would always be in the third car from the rear of the train in the front 4-seater, no questions asked. The man never looked anyone in the eye; only Miss Cheerleader's shoes or Mr. Hairdresser's pockets. His long gray-grease strands covered his face like fog, falling in his Grand Canyon creases.

    I used to imagine stories about him on that long annual ride when I was a little girl. Once he was an ex-clown and another time he was a divorcee who lost his fortune to his ex-wife. One time he was even my best friend's long lost cousin.

    We never spoke on all those trips on the train, even though I knew he recognized me. I'm definitely not a memorable person, but I think that's why he recognized me. I caught him mumbling about tofu and pineapples to his armpits once. Maybe fairies lived there. Most people listened to CDs or read the newpaper on the train, but not him. He didn't even sleep. Never. You could see it on his face like a neon sign, lids sagging. He just huddles over that bread crumb of a crate, staring into it like he was searching for something. It's not like there was anything interesting in there, just some random personal belongings.

    I remember him the most from this one really hot sticky day, the kind that makes you feel like you're wading in clam dip. It was the last time I was to ride that train. I was planning on moving before next summer.

    I was sitting across the aisle from him and as usual, he was oblivious to everything but his crate. I was fanning myself with the latest issue of my favorite magazine, seconds from my stop. I suddenly realized the man was still sitting across from me. He always got off the stop before mine. For a brief second I thought of asking him if he had missed his stop, but I decided against it. Too risky. I just sat there, my mouth hanging slack. When my stop came, as I tried to move pass him to the exit, I felt something cold and heavy being slipped into my left hand. I just kept on going, trembling. I didn't even look at what it was until I had run the three blocks to the bus stop. I was a think medal. An award. The face was eroded badly from the constant rubbing of fingers, I could tell, so bad that I couldn't even tell what it was for.

    Sometimes, when I'm trying to fall asleep at night, I still think about it. Sometimes it was a NASA award he had one for discovering a star, and other nights, it's just a spelling-bee award from third grade.

    I don't know anything about that man, but I hope to track him down one day. Maybe I'll take that train again in a couple years to see if he still rides in that same seat. I want to thank him.

Umm...