One evening, on a regular, cautious commute on the train, I happened across a scene which would make both Howie Mandel and me cringe. I entered a nearly empty train car when it was normally supposed to be packed. I then noticed that only half of the car was empty, except for one man whose smell I just then noticed. Suddenly, he began ripping hearty coughs, which ejected particles so dense that they blurred out anything visible behind them.

“You still have time!” I thought quickly to myself.

I made a half-turn and went for the exit, but it was too late. The train car doors closed agonizingly too soon before I could remove myself from that germ chamber. I quickly went over to the other half of the car where the other survivors stood. I waited there as the train sped off to our certain death. Typically, the next stop was on the other side of one of the longer intervals and would take about 15 minutes before getting there. They were the longest 15 minutes of my life.

I watched that old man from 50 feet away as he hacked, choked, and spit gallons of pure germs all over the train. I saw particles fly out of his mouth and settle cozily onto the handles which people grab constantly. Thinking about how many germs would spread should anyone touch that handle brought a tear to my eye.