I'm sitting on the D train, reading a book on the way home from work. My seat is by the window, my knees just a few inches away from the pair of seats against the wall. At 155th Street, a middle-aged black man wearing black jeans, a black jacket, and black sneakers, lowers himself into the seat in front of me, with a big end-of-the-workday sigh. His jacket brushes up against my knee.
"Excuse me," he says, very politely.
"It's OK." He is a wide-set man with a kind, intelligent face. I immediately like him.
The man puts in his ear buds, fiddles with his iPod, and relaxes. After about 30 seconds, a deep voice behind me can be heard asking: "You related to Darrell?"
The man in front of me looks over my head to the source of the question. He removes one earbud and stands up halfway. "What's that?'
"You related to Darrell?" the voice repeats.
"Nahh." He shakes his head.
"Aw, all right," the voice says. "You look like my son-in-law, Darrell. I thought you mighta been related to 'em."
The man returns to his seat in front of me.
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