New York Minute 99 - Rumpled Suit

The man was in his early sixties, I’ll guess, caucasian, with a head of thick gray hair that was long overdue for a trim. He sat in a rumpled suit next to a sliding door on the subway. Despite the wrinkled, somewhat ill-fitting appearance of his clothing, he came across as educated and well-mannered. Something gave me the impression that he was an attorney, not the fancy, high-priced, take your company public type, but more like a public defender, a man who made a modest living by helping those that could not afford their own representation.

On his lap, he balanced a stack of eight or so brown expandable folders. The rumpled man opened one of the folders and pulled out several sheets of white paper stapled together at the corner. Between double-spaced lines of typed text, the man added hand-written notes with a pen.

Was this a case file, I wondered? Were these papers critical to someone’s life and future? Was the fate of not one but at least eight human beings perched there loosely upon this one man’s lap, balance atop his rumpled pants, as he took his daily ride to the courthouse? If so, what if someone came along and stole one or more of the expandable folders? Were there copies at least of the important documents that they contained?

The remarks that the man was now writing so calmly between the lines of printed text, would these words be critical to the outcome of the day’s proceedings, a day that to this fellow and his peers would seem like any other day, but for a defendant, for any of his clients, might end up being one of the most momentous days of their lives?

We continued to ride along on the subway until I reached the stop near my office. Everyone has to get to work somehow.

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