Yesterday's Wall Street Journal lay across his chest, spread open and draped over his torso as a makeshift blanket. Bill wrinkled his nose at the smell of the man's body odor and took note of the fact that the Dow closed strong yesterday, signalling a second straight quarter of growth.
The man groaned and shifted. The paper fell to the floor. Bill looked at the man sitting to his right. Khakis, blue polo, a cellphone surfing the web. Across the aisle next to the sleeping vagrant was another man in khakis with a green button up shirt and tie. He had a cellphone out and was staring at it.
The smell of Susie's leftovers drifted up from the plastic grocery bag in Bill's lap. Citrus and fish, her orange shrimp over rice. Susie had started cooking more after the last physical, when the doctor told Bill to get his cholesterol down. The man in khakis and grey polo to Bill's left sniffed again, tapping on his cell phone screen. Bill shifted his feet and looked down at the bag of leftovers.
The straggling cuticle on his right hand continued to nag him. He bit down on it and pulled, a chuck of flesh ripped free. Bill let out a whimper, and saw blood already pooling in the gash. It dripped onto his khakis. A throbbing ache began to replace the sharp pain.
A super model with a large cat stared at him from a sign over the sleeping man. She was naked, with her arms crossed over her breasts. She sat on a couch with her legs spread, the cat crouched in front of her genitals. "Nothing looks good when it's covered in fur." So sayeth an animal right's group.
The train slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Bill jumped up and tossed the bag of leftovers onto the homeless man's lap. He ran off the train. He still wasn't across the river, but Bill decided he wasn't going to work today.
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