On the Q Train, late last night, there was a man whose white hair was fluffily balding and whose white eyebrows were fluffily sprouting. I couldn’t see much below that, beyond a glimpse of walrus moustache, because he held Ship of Fools so closely that he had to move his head left to right to read. I expected a typewriter’s ‘Ching!’ at the end of each line.
Every page or so, he coughed wetly into the book. It made me queasy.