Sandy became an actuary because he wanted to understand life/himself. Some folks follow a religious path, others are more comfortable with philosophy, and a few try the circuitous avenue of psychology, but Sandy was one of the rare ones who used the constructs of mathematics. He’d been a tall thin geeky boy, attracted to numbers and science, insecure around sports. There was some structure for him in Synanon and the successor groups, sure, but not nearly enough. He found perspective in statistics; he figured he’d always be able to interpret surveys and never be manipulated. Sandy understands how to expect certain results, provided a group is large enough, and he knows he isn’t acting as expected now.

He doesn’t get off the train at Civic Center. He may not go to work today. Young Karen will wonder where he is. So will Shelly.

He doesn’t detrain but a large group of commuters does. Seats are freed; it’s Sandy’s luck that his pair takes the bench across the aisle from him. His luck and also positioning; apparently the young couple appreciate the relative privacy of the back seat as much as Sandy does.

He tries to look as if he’s not watching them. He gazes out the train window and reads the destination sign. “Richmond.” It never mattered to him before where the train was going to end up; he just rides from Daly City to Civic Center, and all SF trains do that route. “Richmond,” Sandy thinks, as the train pulls into Powell Street Station and loses even more passengers.

The couple are now cuddling. He doesn’t want to look directly at them, but his peripheral vision tells him they’re very close together and moving a little. He would be able to watch if he had his sunglasses on, but there’s no reason to wear shades while the train’s underground. It won’t surface until it has crossed the bay.

He sneaks a peek at Montgomery Street Station. They’re kissing. Deeply kissing, and the young woman appears to be sitting on her boyfriend’s lap. Sandy can’t tell for sure, because her Raiders jacket is draped over them. His mind reels.

He envisions young Karen sitting like that on him, and he knows what would be going on under a jacket. Then he returns to himself. No way. Sandy believes it’s okay to think anything, but he guards his actions. He would no more grope a woman in public than he’d grope himself. Right now. Under the Chronicle. Or after the train leaves Embarcadero Station, almost empty, when he can watch them in the reflection of his window. No way.

He imagines nastiness with Karen, and he feels for a moment young again. He uses his window as a mirror to watch the young man obviously fingering his girlfriend squirming on his urgent lap, and Sandy for a dozen heartbeats feels as horny as a 19 year old.

In the four and a half minutes under the bay he snatches a number of window glances and screens a few ideas. At first as he watches the young couple nibble on each other’s face he wants a young face close for his own stimulation. He knows Karen has agreed to a Portals weekend, and he’s sure that if he’s there for the conclusion, opportunities for spontaneous intimacy will arise. He considers enrolling. At the transbay tube’s lowest depth he realizes with a rush that he isn’t lusting for sex but for his own damn irrecoverable youth. That would sound corny in the light of day but plays all right in the tube, under fluorescent light, when the only other play is a young couple trying to have actual and athletic intercourse under a Raiders jacket.

As the train pulls into West Oakland Station Sandy acknowledges that he never acts on his fantasies, that he has always been a faithful husband. He wonders if his middle-aged lust is actually nostalgia for vigor.

He who doesn’t think often in words begins an open prayer for his baby-boomer generation. “Let us age without delusion,” he intones in his head as the train arrows underground again, curving toward downtown Oakland. “Oh we’ve gotten nothing else right; let us grow old and be wise.”

He’s about to continue with his odd prayer when a cellphone rings. It belongs to one of the sexy couple, and its electronic tone is an all-around mood breaker. As the train slows into City Center Station, Sandy decides to get off and out. He wanders at first in the direction of the lake. He feels a little displaced. A little old. Then he falls into step behind a 20-something woman with a bouncing streaky blonde ponytail. He gazes at her melon-slice ass as he feels, walking young again.