I see the Duracell lady for the first time gliding into the train like a phantom. She has come to cater to our electronic lusting. Her batteries will keep us connected. She’s another impulsive hustler who has tapped into the matrix that enslaves us. I watch her as she hustles every seat with half crazed eyes and gnarled fingers dangling the commerce. I can hardly understand her sales pitch but it never elaborates. Sometimes they find change. Most times they stay hidden in their karma. She disappears. Contempt? I wait for vitriol. She glides out of the car like a phantom. I saw her yesterday. She seemed erratic. Maybe she had lost her rhythm. She stood by an exit mumbling. I hoped that she hadn’t lost her hustle.