Just outside the Belmont station the train came abruptly to a stop and we sat for a minute while the conductor and motorman conferred in low voices. With a tight look on his face, the conductor opened one of the doors, leaned out, and peered into the lightly swirling snow. “Hey,” he began calling into the night with a gruff voice. “Yeah, you. Get over here.” A moment later he pulled himself back into the train. Then a mountainous man with a heavy garbage bag of possessions slung over his back climbed aboard. The conductor closed the doors and stationed himself at one end of the car with his arms folded. The motorman watched curiously from the half-opened door of his compartment.
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We had been sitting for several minutes when the silence was broken by the crackle of the motorman’s radio. The man glanced suspiciously in the conductor’s direction. “You call the police?” he asked. His voice was low, contemptuous. In answer, the conductor shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Sighing loudly, the man took two long steps to the door, grabbed the emergency handle, and let himself back out onto the tracks. The conductor ran down the aisle after him. Leaning out the open door, he called, “Hey buddy, do me a favor and walk in the direction of the station.”
The girl’s eyes opened wide and I could hear her taking a deep breath.
“Don’t pay no attention to her,” another voice suddenly cut in.
“Shut up, Cindy,” said the older woman.
“I said, get over here,” her mother repeated loudly.
