4:59 p.m. on a hot, sticky day, summer of 2006, temperature 98 degrees and climbing.

Train pulls in to Wall Street. One car appears to be empty and fully air-conditioned. A mad dash ensues as all those who sneaked out early from work make a frenzied leap for a nice, cool, empty seat.

Lo and behold – there lying comfortably on the floor in the middle of the car is a male dressed in several layers, including a dirty, worn-out sweater and an old beat up pair of dungarees overlaid with a denim jacket and a pair of tattered polka dot boxer shorts – yes, the shorts were hanging precipitously over the dungarees.

The scent was horrific – a mixture of a Cuban cigar gone bad and a public john filled to capacity. He kept muttering to himself, interspersing his statements with expletives: “Koch is no …. good. No, you’re not doing okay, Mr. Mayor,” “The Dodgers should move to the Bronx,” “Go to church all you bastards,” and “Marilyn Monroe for president” – and he didn’t mean for JFK.

We all held our breaths, exited the car with double the speed of entry, unsure whether the dated rants were more odorous and alarming than the stench on that humid, uncomfortable summer afternoon.

When we looked back into the car, a cop wearing gloves and a mask, was trying gently to remove the narcotics held tightly by the individual and to escort him under the watchful eye of an ACLU lawyer – both appeared as phantoms from nowhere.

Rumor has it that this guy is no degenerate or unfortunate soul who fell on hard times but rather a felon with a long record who doesn’t like company on his way home.