The subway ride home was uneventful for the first handful of stops. The stop at Imperial Way started out like all the others – the crowd of suited businessmen all hurrying to get on, grab a seat, and look important even as they eyed each others’ suits and latest electronic gadgets with either envy or smug superiority. And then he stepped on the train, and I doubt I was the only person to stare in shock. I recognized him — his face, not the exposed lower half — from the papers and business magazines on the newsstands. The two associates he’d stepped onto the train with were busy stroking his ego (and thankfully, nothing else), cooing about his lovely suit, how well those Italian designers had planned every inch, how it matched so well with his loafers… He preened at the attention, and I tried hard not to stare or say anything.

I failed on both accounts, and finally strode over as the train lurched to a start and more than just briefcases swung with the momentum. “Dude, your fly is down. WAY down.”