Ten feet beneath Flatbush, our train slows to walking speed and the air conditioners wheeze their last gasp. Outside the window, the graffiti slows to where the authors' names grow nearly legible. On the right, the local train passes us, its red circle denoting a transfer we'll miss.

At least a dozen children sit accompanied by their parents. Gradually, questions of "How much longer?" and "What's going on?" sound quietly from every corner. Sometimes the loudspeaker grants an explanation, but today that task is left to parents:

"Soon."

"Why don't you do your homework now?"

"Shut your mouth or I take out the belt."

As the cool air recedes, the whining grows and the grumbling increases. We round a turn and a screech eclipses the conversation for ten seconds. It's only the brakes.

Slow as a worm, we pull up to the platform. The doors open. Nobody steps off. One person steps on. Unmistakable--the red leather hat that matches his jacket that matches the huge plastic clock hanging on his chest. It can only be one person.

I want to push by, shake his hand and gush compliments. Wouldn't anyone? Shouldn't they walk up, babbling, "Yeah boyyyy." "C-c-c-cold lamping," "Bring the noise. I love ya." Somehow he sits behind a blazing red clock and sunglasses, enjoying the anonymity of someone not dressed exactly as they did on MTV. I follow decorum and keep my distance, amazed that no one else seems to notice.

One exception is the burly man dressed in black who discreetly sidles up next to him. I eavesdrop intently:

"How you been?"

"Can't complain."

"Something new this summer, I heard right?"

"Mm-hm."

"Won't have to ride the subway no more."

"Got that."

"My stop. Peace."

"Be good."

We pull into Atlantic Avenue, the doors open, the burly man steps out, doors close, and we keep rolling, slower still. I barely hear the din around me as I watch him lean against the door, this vivacious character now keeping each move subtle and small. The rest of the car is looking at somebody else.

"You going to stop whimpering?" the woman yells. "Do I got to take out Mr. Belt?"

Her kids sniffle silently, staring in shock like the rest of us. We're all biting our lips, trying not to look, but wondering whether to step in. At this moment, my secret celebrity walks to the woman and speaks to her, softly and politely.

"Ma'am, you have beautiful children."

Distracted, a bit startled, she thanks the man as the subway doors open and he bounds out, bright clock and all.

I lean over to her, also quietly. "How about that? Flava Flav just praised your children."

The woman's eyes widen. "Was that really--"