Shay used to wait for trains. Or rather, trains would wait for Shay.
It took him a year to realize it, but Shay never arrived at the Irving Park Road train station and stood waiting for a train to arrive.
No. He would either arrive at a station just as a train was arriving, or -- if he had perhaps arrived at the Ravenswood station just before a train arrived, which was rare -- the train would approach him, aligning itself so its doors lined up exactly with the frame of his body, doors sliding apart as though to apologize for the delay and to caress him until he have in to its ministrations. "It's OK. I'm still your train. Step inside. Come on. What are you waiting for?"
Needless to say, Shay didn't notice this. To him, he merely arrived just as trains arrived, making his way through the turnstiles and through the arriving commuters just before the doors closed. The proceedings had no sense of fortune, no sense of mystery.