"Come on!" said Benethela. "There's our train!"
        And she sprinted for the door, which was on the point of closing. Benethela had been an amateur sumo wrestler in her high school years and still had a surprising turn of speed.
        Following clumsily, Frelman stumbled and slipped. He fell backwards. Twisting as best he could, he broke he fall with his hands, just as the door closed. Then, when he tried to stand, he found his tie had been caught by the closing door.
        "So," said Benethela, "I guess we have to make the best of things. But I still have to say I can't stand them."
        Was she still on about Auntie Sputnik and Uncle Fred? Apparently so. Well, if she wasn't going to help him, Frelman certainly was not going to beg for help.
        "They're coarse, uneducated and bigoted," said Benethela. "Worse, what's this about not eating beef?"
        As Benethela rabbited on about her inlaws, the subway train rattled along its tunnel. Trapped near the floor, Frelman endured his embarrassment as best he could. The doors would be opening at the next station anyway.
        So he thought. But, at the next station, the doors opened on the other side.
        "Having fun, sport?" said a teenage boy.
        Sport? What kind of language was that? Frelman wanted the teenager to go away. Maybe Benethela would deal with him. But, no, she was still going on — very loudly, not caring who might hear — about Auntie Sputnik's beard and the peculiar odor of her socks.
        "I mean, cinnamon? Whoever heard of socks which stank of cinnamon? What does she do with them? Use them to stockpile buns?"
        The teenager squatted and bent close to Frelman's ear.
        "Ever cuddled a dog?" said the teenager, the loudness of the train making his voice indecipherable to anyone else.
        "I'll give you ten dollars if you'll get this tie off," said Frelman.
        "Okay," said the teenager. "Where's your wallet?"
        "Tie first, then money," said Frelman.
        "I don't think so," said the teenager.
        The train was slowing for the next station. Suddenly Frelman felt scrabbling fingers working at his pocket. He felt his wallet pop out of the back pocket of his pants.
        "Only ten bucks," said the teenager, dropping the wallet in front of Frelman's face.
        Then the doors opened — again, on the opposite side — and the teenager was gone.
        " ... and their partying," said Benethela. "I mean, a noisy party is one thing, but when you have the noise control officer come round it's just too embarrassing for words."
        Three stations later, the door finally opened on Frelman's side. Released, he scooped up his wallet and got to his feet. Benethela was still talking, her back to him.
        " ... allergic to my deodorant. But that's her problem, isn't it? I've used that same deodorant for twenty years. Why should I change now?"
        "Benethela," said Frelman, "I think this is the end of the line."
        "Why, so it is!" said Benethela, turning to face him. "We've gone way past our stop! Are you drunk? Why didn't you say something?"
        "I didn't like to interrupt when you were in full flow," said Frelman.
        Benethela glared at him, and Frelman knew, then, that the return journey to their intended destination was going to be severely interactive.