The conductor on the 8:16 this morning.

It was a normal Friday ride–full, but not packed, people a bit sick of the work week, counting the days until retirement, looking forward to the weekend.

There was a dude standing in the vestibule, his iPod at a volume that rivaled the man with debatable fathering skills on the 6 train a few weeks back. Falling somewhere between a kid and a guy, he was a slight figure in a giant golf shirt and baggy jeans, a hint of a goatee on a completely expressionless face. Hip-hop cranked from his iPod like Sugar Hill Gang at a summer block party in Hollis; you could hear it loud and clear over your own too-loud iPod.

A few riders shot him an unsuccessful stink-eye, while others looked longingly at the full-page ad for noise-reducing Bose headphones in the Journal.

We were about halfway to Manhattan when you, Mr. Conductor, came by for tickets, not entirely unlike a knight on a white horse.

“Yo, you can hear your music all the way at the other end of the car,” I believe is what you said to the kid.

The guy looked on blankly. He didn’t hear what you said. Because his music was too loud, of course.

“YOU CAN HEAR YOUR MUSIC AT THE OTHER END OF THE CAR!” you repeated with a bit more urgency to your voice.

Then, what set you apart from the other schoolmarm conductors. You threw in a little sotte voce “yo, we’re brothers” street slang to show the kid you didn’t mean to bust his balls, Mr. Conductor.

And it worked! The kid’s blank face showed the slightest sign of recognition, of understanding that there is, in fact, an entire world beyond the three square feet the kid inhabited.

The kid turned the music down. Normalcy returned to the train.

All because of you, Mr. Conductor, and your semi-fluency in street slang. You’re a credit to the pale blue uniform.

–Trainjotting