Orange line to New Carrolton, 8:15 on a weekday morning.

The train was already crowded by the time it rolled in to Rosslyn station, full of grumpy commuters in suits, many of whom were quite obvious with their displeasure at having to be crammed into a barely-air-conditioned subway so early in the morning.

Mark was already on the train when I got on, rocking back and forth on his feet, occasionally spinning in place, fidgeting more than the usual antsy morning commuter. Every few seconds, he apologized to someone for bumping into them, but yet, he continued his rocking, his spinning.

Many of the passengers on the train met Mark with stares of disdain; some muttered obscenities and insults. Mark was not oblivious to the reaction he was causing. Still, he continued his uncoordinated dance.

I had seen this behavior before. I grabbed the pen out of my pocket and scribbled one word on my hand and flashed it at Mark:

“Claustrophobic?”

He nodded at me with a small frown on his face.

Another friend of mine had once told me about her way of dealing with her claustrophobia: when forced into crowded spaces, move around so that it looks like you’re making space for yourself — and keep doing it until you’re able to escape the cramped situation. Mark was doing the same thing, while the commuters around him looked at him with scorn, unaware.

At the next stop, I managed to maneuver us both between the crowd so that Mark was positioned between me and the train doors. There, he could move around, sway and spin, without fear of bumping into anyone but me and the doors. We made light conversation about the upcoming baseball playoffs, ignoring the other passengers around us. I rode the extra two stops after my own until he got off, hoping that the small frown I had seen before had finally shaken off while he spun in place in front of me.

(Photo by Rik Koenig.)

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