I apologize in advance for another post about Light Rail. This evening I left work a little after five PM,  and walked to the station as usual. I stood up when the Belvedere towers appeared between the trees, as usual. But for some reason, instead of holding the vertical bar with my left hand, and facing the door, I held the sloped bar with my right hand and turned towards the center aisle of the rail car. I never do that, but I did tonight, and therefore I could see the young woman lurching towards me.

She wore a party dress or club dress, with a very short pleated skirt on the legs and narrow black and white horizontal stripes above. Her straps were all over the place, though, and she was clearly unsteady on her feet. I suspected that she would never make it down the three tall steps to the platform without stumbling, so I stepped down quickly and turned around. Sure enough she fell on me. I caught her under the arms, steadied her and caught a concerned look from a middle-aged woman exiting at the other end of the car. The young woman tottered to a metal bench alongside the tracks, which seemed like a good plan. I held back and the older woman approached and leaned over to talk to the younger one. I figured it would be more seemly for a woman to step in, so I took that as a cue to go about my business.

But when I was across the tracks, the older woman was leaving, too. I asked her what seemed to be wrong, and she said, "She's high - and very vulnerable. We need to find a po-lice" I thought they only said that in The Wire. The MTA police are usually parked at the station - there have been assaults - but weren't there tonight. The older lady got in her car and drove off. I thought she was going for help, and went back to keep an eye on the young woman, who was on her feet again lurching onto the tracks. I took her arm and steered her back to the bench, and another man suggested she sit down for a while. He was waiting with wife and son to continue North.They left on the next train, and I hoped a po-lice would be there when it left the station.

Instead, a lot of folk were on the other side waiting to go South, probably to the Orioles game. Children, too. They were all watching her lean over and hold her head then lean up and hold her sides, her head flopping back and forth, her mouth open to a strange shape. With nothing but time to look, I saw that she was well-dressed and her hair was reasonably groomed, but there were remnants of scabs all over her knees and knuckles. She didn't seem to be missing teeth, though. I started thinking about the older daughter I haven't seen in years and the younger one I see on weekends.

A small, white official-looking SUV pulled up, and I thought it was the city police. I waved then ran over and realized it was actually a Johns Hopkins security vehicle. The driver had run into the older woman, and had called police, which was good, but could not stay, which was bad. After a while she stood up and walked a short distance down the fence, then sat on the ground. OK fine, I thought, but then she pulled to a squatting position. Pulling off her panties, she said, "I got diarrhea."

She certainly did. "Wonderful," said the Hopkins guy and left on his route. She seemed to squat there forever. Kids were watching her, trains came by with faces turned towards her. I was wondering if the police would ever show up. She somehow sat up, hands and legs covered in feces, and went back to the bench - leaving quite a large pile behind. Flies quickly took notice. I began to hope she wouldn't try to walk over the tracks again because I certainly didn't want to touch her now.

Finally an ambulance arrived. The driver came over pulling on blue latex gloves. He stood next to her, and I could leave. The Hopkins guy thanked me for waiting with her, and guessed that she had taken mushrooms - because she was seeing stuff - or something cut with garbage. I told him I had daughters, and he said he had one, too.