The bully patriotism was somewhat new then, or it seemed more surprising. I was taken aback by how well dressed the guy was, more than by his aggressiveness. The snowshoer, standing on the station platform, just bent both knees and shoved the duffel bag up to me; the bag drove me backward on the landing between the coupled cars of the train. Mr. Barlow’s small bag and one of my heavy backpacks were already aboard.

“I’m talking to you, pal,” the business guy said, pointing at me.

“He’s not your pal—he’s my pal,” the little English teacher told him politely but firmly.

Where the snowshoer was standing on the station platform, he blocked me from getting off the train—he also blocked the businessman from climbing onboard. “Get out of the way, you flaming fag,” the fit young man said, pushing Elliot out of his way. I just stood there, on the landing between the coupled cars. Not everyone is cut out to be the good shepherd Lieutenant Matthew Zimmermann was, I was thinking.

The snowshoer’s hands were bigger than mine. Considering how small Mr. Barlow was, his hands always looked large to me. Suddenly his hands were locked at the businessman’s waist, the knuckle of one thumb pressed into the guy’s navel. The businessman was clawing at Mr. Barlow’s locked hands, but there were no loose fingers to peel apart. When Elliot locked his hands, he knew how to tuck his thumbs and fingers away; there was nothing to grab. The snowshoer’s locked hands were a double knot.

I just waited for the back-heel trip; Mr. Barlow had a good one. I knew it was coming. The business guy had no idea what was coming. His left cheek was what made a slapping sound against the pavement of the station platform. The little snowshoer had to step over the guy to board the train; Mr. Barlow brought the second of my two backpacks aboard with him.

We took a long time stowing my bags. When the train began to move, we had just sat down. The business guy was still on the station platform, but I was relieved to see he was sitting up of his own accord. The two people attending to him were not holding him up, and the businessman had a reasonably alert expression on his face. The way the guy just talked and talked made me wish I could have heard his account of what happened to him.

“ ‘There was this midget fairy—he managed to get behind me, somehow,’ ” I said to the snowshoer, as if that were the whole story.

“ ‘There were four of them—two of them held me, while the other two picked up the station platform and hit me in the face with it,’ ” Mr. Barlow began his version of the story.

“ ‘Four huge guys—all of them were communists,’ ” I told the little English teacher, who began to laugh.