It’s Christmas Day, two weeks ago. I’m on the MAX to the airport to visit family. It’s been a quiet, pleasant trip on a crisp, chilly morning and the train is less than half full. You are sleeping on the five-seat section which runs perpendicular to the tracks. Your hair, clothes and bag of belongings are dirty, but you’re certainly not bothering anyone. Suddenly, a TriMet Fare Enforcement Officer (I guess? I don’t know whose ‘job’ this would be) ambles comfortably toward you. As I watch in horror, fifteen feet away, he does the one thing I’m hoping he wouldn’t: lean over you, call out and start knocking on the plastic seat back to wake you up. He says you can’t sleep on the train and you can’t take up five seats on the train. You, understandably, groan (as if to say, “why can’t you just leave me alone?”) and try to curl up in the space of two seats, noticeably less comfortable. I gave the guy a look and a couple shakes of my head, but I wish I would’ve said something. I’m sorry for not saying something. That guy was a fucking dickhead and I hope you had a better day after that.