The Old Man and the T

Having a seat always makes riding the T a little more bearable. Especially if it’s crowded. I mean, if you have to listen to identically dressed college girls try to have a meaningful discussion about “like, anything” … or watch a toddler suck on a metal pole while his distracted mother tends to her infant, you certainly want a comfortable vantage point, right? At the every least, I’d much rather sit down to play word games on my phone.

After years of riding the Boston subway, sweaty space invaders and thoughtless loud talkers have become part of my everyday life, and I rarely give their close proximity a second thought. But occasionally, an encounter makes me smile and stays with me even months later…

The obvious sense of pride he took in his appearance was refreshing—since so few people do these days. From his brown and white hounds-tooth cap and the polka-dotted shirt collar poking from his sweater, to his loose corduroy trousers and wing-tipped shoes, he was a well-dressed gentleman from another generation. No self-conscious posing—just unapologetic authenticity. Even the earnest way his wrinkled hands gripped the hand rail charmed me somehow.

“No, thank you, I’m just going to Boylston Street station,” he said softly when I offered my seat. “Me too,” I replied. It was only a few stops away, so I didn’t insist. But as we reached our mutual destination, he turned to me, admitting: “Maybe I should have saved my energy for all those stairs.” I offered to help, but again, he assured me that he’d be just fine. And before I rushed off to wherever I was going, he smiled sweetly and gave me a gentle reminder: “Now, you enjoy your life.”