The tall, bald man who wiped his hands on the Grand Central handrail after scavenging around his groin area.

The morning train had pulled into Grand Central, and we commuters did our daily shuffle up the ramp to the concourse.

It was crowded and the pace was slow.

You were in front of me. You’re a large fellow, and your head is shaved; I’d gander that, at least once in your life, you’ve been mistaken for the lead singer of Midnight Oil.

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In a flash, you had both hands down the front of your pants, presumably to sort out something in the groin area that just wasn’t sitting right. I’m not sure it needed to be a two-handed job, and I’m definitely not sure it’s appropriate to conduct such maneuevers out in public, but it’s not my place to say. Long as your boys stay in your hard, it’s your affair.

But then, Mr. Midnight Oil, you removed those hands from the front of your trousers, and wiped them on the ramp’s handrail.

You wiped your groin-besmirched hands on the f***ing handrail!

Bad, bad form, Mr. Midnight Oil.

I hope you return home tonight to find your cooties-ridden bed is burning.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting