5:40 Metronorth to New York. The sky still darkened by clouds, pale blue off in the distance. I sit in the last seat of the last car every day. I nurse a medium decaf with skim milk from St. Dunkin’s. And I think about the exciting day I have ahead of me in publishing.

Every day, in the  aisle in front of me sits a man with a gray-haired crew cut, his knees pressed up against the seat in front of him. In his lap, a pile of newspapers. With hawk-like concentration, he circles and underlines with a blue Bic. Then he tears, folds, and inserts the articles into a deep pocket in his trenchcoat. On the platform at Grand Central, he will hover over the recycling bin snatching newspapers from commuters as they leave the station.

Now, I have to read Les’ memoir.

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