By Christopher Wink | Feb. 16, 2008
Mike came to me.
The platform at City Hall station doesn’t afford much room to maneuver.
Before I knew his name, I knew he was Puerto Rican and friendly, with a bag of CDs and dirt under fingernails that needed attention by anyone’s standards.
After we formally introduced ourselves, he let me on in a secret.
“I just tell people I’m Puerto Rican, man,” Mike told me in the privacy of a crowded car on the Broad Street Line. “So, I don’t get jumped. I’m as white as you.”
And that laugh. The giggle of the deranged.
