On Tuesday 4 AM, I was there. Nursing an early-onset hangover from pills and powders, I waited for an F train to pull in. Like the tide. 12 minutes away, and then 8, and then 5, and then 8 again. And I was waiting there when I noticed the Gnarly Man. The Gnarly Man was a raw, denuded figure rubbed pink. He was crawling along the unused tracks in the middle. How he had arrived at the center without my noticing? His skin was inflamed in fireworks, which burst into clouds of sores and rashes along his back. His nails had grown into claws, caught and impaled upon empty gatorades and smiling plastic bags. He must have slithered in from the entrance tunnel; he seemed to seek the exit. With each gasping breath he pulled himself further. And now he was further still. I looked around, imagining myself to be a part of an audience to a violent theater, but no. It was only I who noticed. I stepped further toward the precipice, under the Gnarlyl Man’s spell. I had to see and I had to know. At closer distance I could see his jaw, which against all odds he had kept pleasantly masculine and clean-shaven. His hair had been combed back with mayonnaise. Streaks of white ran through it, whose origin must have been stray tub thrown onto the tracks. Patches of his broad shoulders shouted out through the caked dirt. What had his life been, prior to this moment? And what would his life be like, after? He was in the boulevard, where the express trains never ran any more. Where the decade of grime that had accumulated since the transit authority had declared bankruptcy and been bought out by Yamaha. Before I could say something or pull out my birding binoculars, the Gnarly Man was at the exit tunnel. First his head entered the shadow of the tunnel, then his spongy greasy shoulders, and finally his toes, of which he still had eight. The spell released, and I fell onto a mew in heaving sobs, which left me in sheets. The F came and went.