Grand

Very old lady talking to a young boy she apparently knows. The boy's father stands nearby, and it appears they are family friends or something. 

From the moment the kid and his dad got on the train, this old lady has talked endlessly. A constant stream of creaky, shaky talk about our nice weather and why weathermen aren't that accurate. "Highly paid guessers," she says.

Her nose is hooked, her face frozen into a creased, leathery permanent grin, and she is talking so loudly I can hear her over Tool blaring into my ears. 

It's too early for Tool.