A year ago, in the spring, I was buying a train ticket at the clunky NJ transit machines when I heard the voice of a young Hispanic guy with baggy pants and an oversized baseball cap, wearing all black. He had messy, curly black hair, long enough to spill out from underneath the cap. His expression was petulant and hurt-looking.
“Hey! What’s your name?”
“My name…? What?”
“Yeah, your name. Just asking your name, that’s all.”
“It’s just your name!”
At this point I really didn’t know what to say and must have been looking at him incredulously, about to walk away.
“How old are you? Would I get arrested for talking to you?”
And then he left.