The 5:41

   Back Bay station.  Standing on the dirty concrete siding of Track 5.  Waiting for the 5:41 Worcester Local to arrive from South Station.

   A young man appears among the loose herd of commuters, walking up and down in an agitated way, nearly jumping as he speaks.  “Can anyone spare a dollar?  Anyone at all?  I need a dollar to buy a ticket to get to Worcester.  Anyone?  Please?

   He looks like a con artist to me.  I don’t believe he wants money for the train.  

   I watch him for a moment, pacing up and down and pleading with person after person, before I burrow back into the book I am reading -- Les Miserables.  The irony is not lost on me.  I choose to invest my attention on the fictional Gavrotte instead of the real urchin just steps away.

   The young man has no takers.  He becomes louder and more desperate as the moments tick by.  The train will be here any minute. 

   Then a voice calls out, “Here!”

   Down the platform a bit, holding aloft a dollar bill, is the blind man who rides this train every day.  Face uplifted, holding up a dollar to the young man he can hear but not see.     

   The young man races over, takes the dollar, saying “thank you, thanks man,” and then raises his cry anew.  “Who else will help me?  The ticket is seven dollars and now I have one.  Can anyone help me?  Please?”  He moves quickly down the platform, pleading as he goes.

   I’m still feeling skeptical but also rotten now.  If the blind guy will give him a dollar, then surely so should I.  He may really need a dollar for a train ticket.  And what’s the great harm if he doesn’t?  So what if I’m wrong and he’s really trying to rip us off?  It’s a lousy dollar for God’s sake.  A dollar I’ll never miss.

   I pull out my money clip and see that I have three singles among a bunch of larger bills.  I make myself a deal.  If he comes back this way before I get on the train, I’ll give him the three dollars.

   A large man, about my age, comes along and stands next to me. 

   “Ten bucks that guy doesn’t get on the train,” he says.

   “Yeah,” I say.  “He’s running out of time.”

   “No, I mean he has no intention of getting on the train.  I’ve seen this act before.  Not this guy, but other guys down at South Station.  They get people to give them a few bucks and then just bolt out of the station.  He’s not buying a ticket.” 

   I slip the three dollars back in my pocket, hoping the man hasn’t seen what a rube I was about to be.

   He goes on:  “A couple of years ago I was walking by the bus station and this woman outside was begging people to give her money so she could buy a ticket for the bus out to Springfield.  Total coincidence, but I was on my way to get my car to drive to Springfield.  So I says to her, ‘I’ll give you a ride,’ but she turns me down.  ‘Oh no,’ she says, ‘I couldn’t let you do that.’  Right.  Like she can take my money, but she can’t take a free ride to Springfield where I am going anyway?  A con job, just like this guy.” 

   By now the train is pulling in.  I chat a bit more with the large man while we are getting on the train, before I find a space to stand and open my book again.  I don’t bother trying to see where the young man went.  He’s in a bad spot no matter what. 

   I put the three dollars back in my money clip and open my book and go back to France.  To Gavrotte and Thenardier, Jean Valjean and Javert, Marius and Cosette.   The noble and the not-so-noble poor.  The con artists and convicts.    

   The young man on the platform – is he still there? At the ticket window? Running down the street?  He’s somewhere in this cast.