The other day, while chasing a train down Suburban Station, an old lady -- she could have been 80 -- was dragging herself across the street only able to muster her disgust with trying to find the train station.

She said, "I can't believe this crazy business! I can't find the train station! Where on earth is it?!?!" She would have used the F word if her gentle soul could tweeze it out of her raspy voice.

I was in midstep to the zebra: "The entrance is down that way," I said, pointing to the station entrance I have used everyday for the past 10 months or so.

She said, "No, it can't be! You're wrong!" I supposed she would have said "idiot" too, but the weather was too nice.

I said, pausing momentarily, thinking about whether I was going to miss the train if I continue to engage her: "I go down that entrance every day!" At this point I was almost halfway across the street. She looks like she was about to cross, but her legs looked like dry reeds waiting to crack.

I looked back at her and I noticed that she was on her way to crossing the street. The orange hand started to blink, as if to say, "You have 15 seconds left until you're run over." I started marching faster, she, well, she knew it would be a long walk.

As soon as the end of the entrance steps, I was wracked with guilt. I could have helped her cross the street and make her way down the stairs -- and surely I would miss my train. But what if she never found the station? What if she had fallen down the steps that *I* told her to take? I couldn't quiet myself for an hour, hoping that she was okay. I had become an uncaring urbanite: live and live, and not give a flying f about anybody.

A street crossing could not have meant so much.