You tiredly trudge onto the subway at the end of a long work day, knowing you’ve got a train ride of discomfort ahead of you. But wait, what’s that over there in the corner shining out a holy glow? An empty seat! Surely not. You light up, and make a beeline for it, as you hear the doors shut. You begin to turn, ready to assume the sitting position, anxious to plop your weary human bone pile down onto a seat full of the ghosts of a million strangers’ butts,  when suddenly you are stopped. A hand is swiftly waved in front of the seat; you hear a forceful, yet gentle, murmur:

“That seat’s wet.”

Only then, do you look closely enough to see that the well of this formerly inviting seat is full of some super gross brownish mysterious liquid that only New York City is capable of conjuring up.

You look at your savior and yell “OH MAN, THANK YOU,” way too loudly for a crowded subway car. He nods, totally nonplussed.

You grab the part of the pole that you hope only a few tall people can reach, so you mush your hand onto less germs. The doors ding and more people step on. You see someone else beeline towards the seat, only to be saved by our quiet hero.

For 25 minutes, you watch that man stay in his seat and risk a slosh-over in order to save the weary strangers at every stop from what can only be certain death. As you step off the train, he remains, and you wonder if he ever leaves that subway car. He has a city to protect.