Dear Diary:
The uptown No. 6 subway car I boarded at Union Square had very few passengers, giving me an unimpeded view of the man sitting opposite me. He was well groomed and neatly dressed, except that his foulard tie hung down over both lapels of his sport coat and his business shirt had the top two buttons undone.
As if he had suddenly become aware of his dishabille, he knotted his tie, for him a complicated process. It wasn’t until he finished that he realized he had knotted it inside his shirt; he tried to tug it out and push it under his collar, but to no avail. So he untied it, buttoned up his shirt and patiently tied it over again.
All this time I had been watching him considering whether he might be rehearsing an old Jacques Tati routine. He seemed to finally get himself all put together, and, when the train slowed to a stop, grabbed his briefcase and hurriedly exited in time for me to see that one half of his jacket collar was standing up against the back of his ear.
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