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July 3, 2002
Would be commuters are wandering glassy-eyed about the platform searching for elusive moving air. Trains are sluggish from the heat. Me, I'd go cab, but Richard's a subway boy. We're standing—melting-- and when the train finally pulls up there's not a soul in the car stopped directly before us. As the doors open I turn to Richard and say, "There's no AC in there." I hop in, then out and to the next car. Richard's stuck. F-trains don't let you pass car- to-car so I laugh at him through the glass. He pretends not to notice. Pretends he's not hot.