Transit Chronicles, Part II

Saturday, 1400 hrs.  On the Bloor-Danforth subway eastbound from Royal York station.  A couple of chatty girls are sitting about ten feet away.  You can hear snippets of their conversation, but they are not obnoxiously loud and giggly like adolescent girls are wont to be.  A random subway wino with long grey-white beard is sitting on the seat bench opposite mine; his eyes are closed and he appears to be resting.  The wino actually reeks of wine, for a change, instead of some industrial solvent.  I’m listening to tunes on my BlackBerry, through a pair of ear buds.

QUIET!” bellows the wino, gesturing at the girls.  “Listen to God”.

Duly noted.  I haul out the ear buds to check volume.  No voice of God, and no audio leakage of music either.  I don’t want to be one of those guys listening to their iPods at ear-crushing volumes so that the tunes are plainly audible to those standing 5 or 10 feet away.  The girls lower their voices slightly, but they weren’t exactly breaking glass before.  They continue talking.

“QUIET!” bellows the wino again.  He mutters to himself inaudibly.  I figure he must be new to the game.  Serious practitioners of public inebriation know that the subway — with its screaming kids, giggly girls and screeching brakes — is not exactly the place to sleep off a hangover.  Good luck with that.

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