Just as the train pulls up, he snakes his way between the woman standing in front of me and the door. He's old, with a cane, shabbily dressed, a ratty baseball cap perched at a distracted angle on top of his balding pate.
I try to give him the benefit of the doubt though, even when the doors open and he shoves his way past the exiting passengers and heads straight for the folding seat in the corner of the train; maybe he needs to sit, I mean, I don't know his life, how much pain he's in.
But instead of folding the seat down and, you know, sitting down to maybe ease whatever's wrong with whatever he needs that cane for, he starts haranguing the car, leaning up against the seat, completely incoherent, maybe not even hurt, just a mean son of a bitch.
One year ago: It (Really) Begins
Two years ago: Fading
Three years ago: Spin Class Epiphany
Eight years ago: 6/5/09 - Short attention
Nine years ago: 6-5-09