Five stops on the Hempstead Branch, five on West Hempstead, and five on Long Beach, but 10 on Oyster Bay and goddamn 13 on Babylon with another itty bitty idiot committee at each, all shitty, reeking of mommy and daddy's liquor cabinet. "Fuck you, fuck you." And the bastard collector had the nerve to eyeball me among all these "dickhead motherfuckers." Did he inspect their water bottles before asking to see my ticket a third time? He only should've punched it once, the fuck. He's probably daydreaming of his other job, getting high on his own supply, "slinging work." If only the man I'm going to see would stop calling me in that voice of his — nasal, the painful kind, the snowy apartment kind, the park-bench sofa kind — then maybe I could pay better attention. Then I could find my ticket. Then I could get to where I need to go.
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