On the 33

While riding the bus to Jim’s, I sat directly behind the back exit. A Plexiglas partition separated me from the doors. A rather portly man, dressed in a canary yellow button-down and murky green cord pants stood up from his seat and maneuvered to the exit. Behind him followed a young twenty something punk homeless looking guy, messenger bag slug across his back, his mouth tightly pursed and his cheeks puffing. The large man stepped and the punk stuck his head out the door and wretched a very pretty pink puke. There was not a reaction from me. The punk wiped his mouth and touched the pole. Mental note “do not touch pole on way out.” He bumped his way to the seat wear the portly man has sat. The bus neared it’s next stop. The woman who had been sitting next to me stood up and went to the exit. She obviously had made the same mental note as me. The punk got behind her. She stepped down to open the doors and the punk again stuck his head out the door and unleashed some more pink puke. He wiped his mouth again and sat back down. This continued at each stop for seven blocks until I got off the bus.