“Bankie!” the toddler cries, now jerking forward against his seat belt and making the whole stroller move. He’s going to pitch face-first onto the floor if he keeps this up. I lean forward and reach out for the blankie.

“What the fuck,” the man says, and he swings his arm, knocking my hand away.

Everything goes white-hot. My hand shoots up between the man’s legs and grabs his crotch. I stand up and squeeze. The man gives out a strangled, high-pitched cry and tries to fold in on himself. I reach out with my other hand and grip his shoulder, keeping him upright.

“Chad!” the woman says. She has her hand on the stroller, steadying it, but is staring round-eyed at us.

“I was reaching for your son’s blankie,” I say to Chad, his mouth an open O of shock. “He threw it on the floor of the train, and I was trying to pick it up and hand it to you to give to him. But you were too busy swinging your dick around. Wanted to make sure your wife knew who was in charge, yeah?” I punctuate my question with another squeeze and he yelps and rises up on his tiptoes, trying to escape the pain. “Wanted to make sure everybody knew who was in charge. Well, right now, Chad? I’m in charge. Understand?” Chad nods, his face twisted in anguish. “Don’t be an asshole, Chad. The world is full of assholes. You hear me?”

I let go of his crotch and push him away. He collapses back into his seat next to his wife, face red and wet with tears. He bends forward, moaning into his knees. His wife puts her arms around him and murmurs in his ear, then shoots me a hateful look. I realize the rest of the train car is staring at me. Even the toddler in his stroller is silent. Somehow I’ve become the crazy homeless guy on the train.

The train slows and the driver’s garbled voice from the speaker announces Peachtree Center. It’s the stop before Five Points, but I can’t stay on this train any longer. I fight the urge to claw the doors open. Instead I bend down and pick up the toddler’s blankie and hold it out to the wife. Don’t want the kid to stuff it into his mouth after it’s been on the floor of the train. The wife snatches the blankie from my hand as if I’m a rattlesnake that could strike.

Then the train comes to a halt and the doors open, and I’m out and onto the platform and I march past the crowd of passengers and the benches and the escalators to the far end of the platform, where I turn and march back, circling the platform, trying to outstrip the anger in my heart.

CHAPTER TEN