Taking the first seat near the door, Andrew suddenly felt exhausted. He had intended to work during the 30-minute ride to the suburbs but found himself wanting to just sit there and stare at the color-coded map of the transit system and ponder the geographic layout of the Bay Area. Anything to take his mind off the board meeting.

Just as the train descended into the darkness of the tunnel that ran beneath the bay and Andrew’s eyes began to close, one of the connecting doors behind him opened. He turned and saw an elderly man wearing some sort of uniform step into the car. He appeared to be a janitor of some kind; the name “Charlie” was patched onto the pocket of his gray shirt.

Suddenly Andrew felt uncomfortable. Should I talk to this man? he thought. Certainly he’ll expect me to acknowledge him; there’s no one else on the train. But what do I say?

It had come to this for Andrew. He had no problem talking to the television reporter from the Financial Network when the stock dropped six months ago. He was completely comfortable making a presentation to more than two hundred analysts at the marketing conference. But for some unexplainable reason, tonight Andrew was uneasy—even nervous—at the prospect of exchanging middle-of-the-night pleasantries with an old man. And a janitor nonetheless.

Before he could think of something to say, the white-haired man walked by him without saying a word, exited into the next car, and was gone.

Andrew was surprised that, instead of feeling relieved, he felt insulted that the janitor had just ignored him.

But again, the board meeting intruded on his thoughts, and Andrew decided it was time to get to work. As he reached for his briefcase, the lights inside the car flashed, then faded, and the train came to a screeching stop. Sitting alone in the dim light, Andrew wondered if things could possibly get worse, when the door leading into the next car opened.

“Come on,” the old man in the janitor suit said. “What are you waiting for?” Then he left.