drunks
by squidbite
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not truly a subway story, but close enough...
Anyone unlucky enough to have lived in NJ and commuted to NY via PATH train can already feel the peripatetic pain.
Add a late night on a cold Saturday, and a station full of boozehounds waiting for the ride of shame back to Hoboken and eventually that bastion of beauty, Jersey City, and you're three quarters of the way there.
After waiting the better part of an hour for the train in 33rd Street Station, then the eventual great push onto the Jersey-bound train, I managed to get wedged between a drunken frat-boy-type pack of barely literate meatheads, finding myself jammed up against the ubiquitous metal pole.
I look up and notice a very pale girl, face in hands alternating with the inevitable wiping of the brow with the back of a clammy hand. Finally, my stop arrives after I've been thoroughly naueated with the stench of stale beer, cigarettes and cheap cologne, and not a moment too soon.
And indeed not soon enough.
I am halfway out the door, the smell of freedom in my nostrils, when an unholy belch fills my ears and I hear the unmistakable and - unfortunately, unforgettable - sounds of splatter followed by the groan one hears when, say, a group of guys watches a fellow brother get kicked squarely in the nuts.
I turn around to see my new shoes, not to mention the bottoms of my pants, covered in yak.
What a nice way to end an evening. In Jersey.
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