On the Subway

He was slumped sideways in his seat, drooling. He had a scruffy beard; tufts of unkempt hair stuck out of his black skull cap. He appeared to be semi-conscious, mumbling to himself. Frankly, he didn't smell too good.
I was about to move to another car when he said something that made me start. Shark Meat. He repeated it. I took a closer look. My God. I knew this man. I KNEW this guy.
I stood up and went over, holding my breath. Joe, I shouted. Joe, it's me, Dan. From the writers group.
He looked up, barely able to focus, and burped loudly.
Joe, what happened to you? Your novel, Shark Meat. You had an agent, a book contract. You were on your way.
Now he realized who I was. Breathing heavily, coughing, shivering, he somehow got the words out.
James Patterson, the bastard, stole my idea. My deal fell through. BASTARD!
Then he started crying. Before I could grab him, he slid to the floor and wet himself.
I collected myself, punched in 911, and stuffed a twenty into his ratty pullover jacket. I got out at the next stop.