Sitting Next to Steve

Tattoos up and down his arm, uncombed hair, and a voice that carried halfway across the train. This was the guy I chose to sit next to. Well, ‘chose’ isn’t the right word. It was the only seat left. Most people would have moved to a different car. That’s what my mother would tell me to do. But I sat there anyway. His name was Steve. He had to be in his forties, and it was his night off work. So he was heading to his friend’s house to… well… to get plastered. It’s been ten years since he’s had cocaine, and tonight he’s doing it again. This he proudly boasted so half the train could hear him. If he had a joint he’d light it up right there. He didn’t care if the conductor kicked him off and called the cops. This was the kind of guy mothers keep their children away from. He talked loud, and he talked to anyone, whether they would listen or not. I just don’t understand some people’s motives. All this guy wanted was some booze, drugs, and rock & roll. A little sex wouldn’t have hurt either.

Now there’s a funny thought; I wonder what it would be like to have Steve sitting next to me in church.

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