A Trip on the Orange Line

A few years ago, when I was still new to commuting, I was heading home on the orange line. I drove in to Oak Grove that day rather than taking the train. I was just sitting in my seat, minding my own business, when I noticed a rather large woman getting onto the train. She stood out for many reasons: she was wearing leopard print pajama pants; she had on a yellow stained ripped t-shirt; her greasy blonde hair was matted to her head. It looked like she hadn’t showered in weeks. She sat down directly across from me in the unfilled train. Lucky me.  

I continued reading my book, not wanting to create any additional awkwardness by staring at her some more. But then I saw her take out a bright orange pill bottle.  Presumably a prescription. I watched as she struggled with the cap.  Then the cap suddenly popped off and, as if in slow motion, her pills scattered across the floor...of the train…the 10,000 different sets of feet, dirt, gum, trash, mold, and what-could-be-the-next-stage-of-biological-warfare-breeding-ground floor of THE SUBWAY.  I could see her jaw drop in shock.

So, as the tiny white pills laid there among the accumulated filth of a city, she gazed down at them, with a sad and confused expression on her face.  Then, without warning, her ratty, soiled sneaker shot out and landed on top of a few of these coveted pills. Without a shred of situational awareness, she slowly and carefully dragged her foot closer and closer to her, scraping the pills across the floor until they were within reach…Then she reached down, picked up the pills with her stubby fingers, and popped them into her mouth. She looked up at me and smiled.

I love the T.