7:23 train to Grand Central

"This is the 7:23 train to Grand Central," announces the screeching robotwoman voice. "This station is Tarryytownnnn, the next station stop is Irrrviiinggtonnnn."

"She" not only speaks to me, but also to my fellow travelers this morning, like all mornings. Traveler is a generous term; for They, like myself, do not undertake in a journey this bitter winter morning on the Hudson River Line. We merely take our seats (usually the same ones) aboard this sleek new sanitized Iron Horse, Purell hand-cleaning stations included of course. I'm not one of Them though. I could never be.

They leaf through the Markets section of the pink Financial Times. They pore over the Money and Investing section of The Wall Street Journal as they sip that bitter black coffee. They work for barons with last names such as Blaknfein, Dimon, Mack and Moynihan - who happen to be in Washington today explaining to Congress how their leadership led to the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression.

The train car is as silent as a funeral, save for the constant clicking of Blackberrys, chaining Them to the grindstone of industry. I watch out the window as the hawks circle their prey high above the dominating Palisades Cliffs. They glance at their watches, counting down the minutes until that damn magical bell goes off to announce the start of another day of making money.

Their job, at the end of the day (and the start), is to make money, not to teach a struggling, but determined, Haitian immigrant the English language, not to help a scared mother fight against breast cancer with her family and definitely not to lead a green infantry platoon on a midnight attack in the Helmand province against an al Qaeda commander.

Their job is not even to make money for their client, but rather make cash profits for their company, firm or investment group. The more money they earn for their company, the higher their salaries and definitely bonuses - no matter how much they risk and mislead and lose the Other Guy's Money. Sometimes I pity them. Other times I despise them.

But They Purell their hands of the blood of the Working Man, 'fore the crucifixion of Main Street. For how could they be blamed for trying to make their clients the most money? How could they be blamed for hustling collateralized debt obligations to their clients and then betting against them, for millions and millions?! Look it up.

Conflict of interest? Never. Always for the good of the client, the bottom line. Their decisions underwritten by the cash in their hands.

I never even see these Ones on the train. These Ones have those plush Upper East Side apartments a mere 10 minutes from the office via a chauffer whose son is with the English teacher. Their firms for these Ones to give a devastating 4 percent of their multi-million- dollar bonuses to charity, to blunt the populist outrage when the numbers are released to the public who paid for them.

But the bottom line now? For Their clients at least - it's an unpaid mortgage payment, a much-delayed retirement and an innocent freshman whose family can't support her education anymore. It's not a line anymore; it's a rock.

Bernie Madoff, already pleasantly aged at a stately 71, got 150 years - and he deserved every year and then some. These men get even bigger bonuses, as they cut another 85,000 jobs in December while unemployment climbs and broke-ass college kids must somehow find $250 for an accounting textbook, or steal it. They get pats on their backs from their fellow board members over a scotch. They get two weeks in Southhampton. They get a new $200 putter. They get a bailout. They get a second chance.

Meanwhile, she's on the night shift at Waffle House again, hoping to scratch out just enough money for a semester at the local community college, yearning for a second chance for that nursing degree, a decent salary and life. No one can earn a million dollars honestly.