Once again, under-the-turnstile. Fortunately for me, there was only one man standing on the platform. He looked, at my face, the color of my hair, what I had in my hands, as I was squatting on my knees to pass under the bar and then just turned away. My ticket had malfunctioned and the train was coming. They only come once every 10 minutes on that line. What’s a body to do?