It's 7 a.m. at ground zero of the Boston public transportation system, Park Street Station. The oldest subway station in American is the point where the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority's "Red" and "Green" lines intersect, carrying college students to classes, world-renowned surgeons to operating rooms, and Red Sox fans to Fenway Park. 
It is here that a crack team of artistic transportation experts—specially-trained mimes--have been assembled by the "T" to lead the fight against inconsiderate or downright boorish behavior by passengers on the system's trains, busses and trolleys. 
"Okay, everybody, quiet down," says Director of Customer Service Patricia O'Riley, a third-generation T employee. The mimes look at her as if she is daft. "Sorry—I was sort of expecting everybody to be noisy," she says in embarrassment. "Anyway, here's the drill. We got people all over the system who are ruinin' the T experience for their fellow riders. Talkin' loud on cell phones, clippin' their fingernails . . ." 
A mime in the first row screws his face up into an expression of disgust. " . . . even flossing their teeth," O'Riley continues. "So let's run down a few do's and don'ts. First, and I can't emphasize this enough, do not say anything to an offending rider." The mimes look up at O'Riley and nod in agreement. 
"Second—use discretion. If you see somebody not getting' up for a pregnant women, don't go all ballistic on 'em. Just use your mimetic powers of suggestion." She pauses for a second. "Anybody got any ideas?" 
A man in the front row stands up and rocks his arms back and forth, pretending he is cradling an infant in the crook of his elbow. "That's excellent. That's what I want to see—silent shaming, so that guy knows he's doing something wrong by not giving up his seat. Okay—you got your station assignments—let's hit the streets!" We stand up and make various gestures of enthusiasm—pumping fists, high fives—and file out of the room. I stake out a position on the Red Line platform for outbound trains to Cambridge—home of Harvard University, the smarty-pants capital of America. I've been told I'll see some of the most self-centered, egotistical behavior on the entire MBTA system on this line, and as a train slows to a stop and the doors open, I spot my first perps; two self-infatuated young intellectuals, having a highbrow discussion in loud voices. 
"You can basically divide Husserl's thinking into three distinct segments," one of them is saying about the German phenomenologist who is unknown to the rest of the train car. "His Halle years, his Göttingen period, and the twilight of his carrer in Freiburg." 
His friend begs to differ. "I think his definitive work was done in Gottingen, and everything else he ever wrote has to be viewed through the prism of his Ideen zu einer reinen Phenomenologie und phänomenologischen Philosophie." My ears perk up. The kid is literally speaking in italics. It's time for action. I take a seat opposite the two and begin to mock their pretentious dialogue by carrying on a silent conversation with an old woman sitting next to me. She is oblivious, but the other passengers get it and begin to laugh. The two eggheads get the message and turn the volume of their pedantic talk down a notch. Justice has been served. I get off at Central Square and board a bus for Watertown, a near suburb with modest homes on tree-lined streets. I spy a cocky young man wearing "hip hop" styles, and sense trouble brewing. 
Sure enough, we have no sooner pulled away from the curb than the kid splays his legs, taking up a full seat that another rider could share, if he or she dared. I'm on the case. I walk d
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