The Fucking T - Part 1

Every morning, on my way to school, ipod blasting music into my ears, Metro newspaper in hand, I decend 2 escalators and a staircase to get to the only form of transportation availible to me...the fucking T.

There are tons of reasons to hate the T. Smelly people, crying children, the people that stare at you for no reason at all, and the people, like me, who annoy all the other commuters by blasting our music at incomprehensible decible levels. Maybe people get pissed at the volume, or perhaps they are pissed that they didn't bring their own form of entertainment. The T is not the place to expect perfect fucking silence. No, quite the opposite. The T is where some of the craziest shit will happen to you. Let me give you example #1...

So Im coming come from school. I got my ipod playing, of course, and my eyes are closed as I try to block everyone else out and bear the next 20 minutes. At the second stop, I feel a thump next to me, follow by a cold wet feeling down my right leg. "What the fuck!" I say. Well, I probably yelled it, because I had my music up so loud. Also, when I opened my eyes the whole section of the train car was looking in my direction.

I look to my right, and here is this fucking guy...the smelliest bastard ive had to sit next to yet in 2 years. I look down into the left pocket of his soiled army jacket and see an open can of Miller Genuine Draft. Now I know whats on my leg. Fucker may as well just have pissed on me. (have you ever had MGD?)

I look up at the guy and before I can say anything, he slurs out the words "Shorry man, I dint meen to shpill on youse." Ok dude, just don't talk to me and I'll forget I need to burn my jeans when I get home. "Hey man, are you Irish?" Lucky for him that Irish sounds the same whether or not you slur it, so I was able to understand his question. "Ya, I'm Irish." Im also french and scottish, but he didn't need to know that.

"I bet you like to fight don't you man, you Irish fuckers all like to fight. I'm french, but I'm just like you Irish fucks, I like me a good fight. Hey man, you wanna go fight some 'african americans'." (he used a way more colloquial term, and I will use * as that word). "I wanna go fight some * man, you wanna go fight some * with me?"

Right now, me and the other 13 people on our side of the train are staring at this guy. I didn't know how to respond to a question like that. I just wanted to ride home on the train without being bothered. "No man, I'm all good" is all I could manage to get out.

"Awww man, I don't want you to think I'm shome drunk guy or shumthing. I was shober for 2 yearsh then I shmoked shome coke yeshterday, and I'm trying to get into shome rehab program but I have to make it sheem like I'm really fucked up so they admit me. Actshually, I wanna go shmoke shome more coke. You wanna go shmoke shome coke with me Irish man?" he says.

Yes dude, thats exactly what I want to do. I wanna go smoke some crack with you. In fact bust it out right here so I can overdose and kill myself so I don't have to see or smell you anymore.

"No man, I don't do drugs, they are bad for you." As I said that, the train pulled up to Porter Square station. Before the junkie could come back with another brilliant response, I say to him "Hey man, isn't this the stop where your rehab clinic is?" The guy looks out the window and goes "oh shit, is it?" I'm like "yah it is, you said Porter was where u needed to get off." He got off.

As we pulled away I took a deep breath. That shit was crazy, but thats the type of shit that happens on the T. So the next time you hear my music blasting on the train, relax and be thankful I'm not spilling cheap beer on your leg, asking you to fight *, and offering you crack!