Midst of summer, the heat intensifies, the craziness never stops. But within this chapter lies a tale of retardation and great question.
Listening to a soundtrack while riding the train back toward home, I noticed that a thug had made his way into the car via the emergency exit. These goons are either soliciting, stealing goods, and/or just making an impatient transfer. This dude, dressed in a wife-beater and grotesque tats scribbled on his face, decided it was the good day to sell cleaning products on the train. After being denied by those he asked, he sat down a few seats away from me and began to ignite a blunt - a rather rough-looking one, too, I might add. The smoke never bothers me, but on the train it most certainly does, especially when a child can literally smell it from a few feet away. The child, no older than three, was shielded by his worried Hispanic mother, pouting and looking away from the careless fiend. Me and a neighboring chick with luggage got up at the same time and switched over the car, wanting to just get the hell away from this disturbed bastard. What stuck in my head was the young lad who had to experience such dirt first-hand upon public transportation at such an innocent period of his life. The image was engraved into my thoughts, such disappointment, such anger - I wonder why I didn't say anything. Maybe it's because of the fact that I live in such a bloody city that even the slightest lights of heroism are masked by the overwhelming fear of being shot by a piece of shit who probably can't swing a decent punch. Fist fights are one thing, but getting shot is an entirely different action. But would it be worth it, if I were to say something in order for the kid to ride in peace?
I mean, come on, what else could I have done?
