I was introduced to Trane later in life. Eight years ago in fact.
He was the new, part-time doorman in our low-key uptown apartment building. He was barely nineteen. Outfitted in a spare uniform, some two sizes too big and cinched at his waist, he looked a good deal younger, like a boy cosplaying a man who signed for packages and, if he remembered, held the door.
"I'm Trane," he said by way of introduction. "But most people think it's Train."