A man stumbled aboard the train the other day straight from another era, or maybe the movies. Fedora perched carelessly on the back of his balding head. Too-tight jacket splayed to reveal sweat stains creeping from his pits. Tie loosened a good three inches. His flush face indicated he was drunk. He panted and peered around like a spooked dog. In his right hand he clutched his briefcase, in his left a disheveled section of The Times. He was the harried traveling salesman type, circa 1963. A Willy Loman, caught forever out of time.