Five or six black guys get on the train, boisterous, passing a bottle of something in a paper bag back and forth between them, talking to each other, to the pretty girl sitting across the car from me, just generally taking over the vibe of the train.
Midway between stations, one of the guys sitting next to me reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a surprisingly long joint, which he strokes in that slightly fetishistic way of the true pot connoisseur before lighting it up and taking a deep hit.
His friend, sitting on the other side of me from his friend, reaches across me and taps the guy on the knee.
“Yo, you should think about that,” he says seriously.
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