It’s evening rush and a strapping young man boards my train, takes a seat for people with disabilities. The train lurches forward. He yells something unintelligible. Rocks to and fro, banging against his seatback and repeating the same muddled words, louder and louder. I try to ignore him. Can’t. My shoulders stiffen, readying for him to blow, but his words become a puzzle, its pieces slowly fitting together in my mind: phone, need, call, mom. Don’t we all? The thought rattles me out of my seat and next to him, cell in hand. His mother answers, soothes an anxious carload.
Beth Ann Wenger is a writer in the Washington, DC, area. Her work has appeared in BOMBFIRE and Miniskirt Magazine. Find Beth Ann at www.bethannwenger.com.