Three men dressed as nothing special stand and show their brass medallions and eye us now as ticket inspectors. This is when those who haven't punched a ticket feel fight or flight in their bellies.
But the man sitting across from me, with his knees almost touching mine, fears nothing. He smoothly produces a wallet with a shining thing inside, a silver badge. The man to my right then reaches into his jacket, finds another sort of badge, shows it to the inspector, and nods quietly to the man with the badge, who quietly nods back.
I feel a bit inadequate with my monthly pass showing through a window in a red plastic holder.