Sleepytime

There's a man sleeping next to me. While that phrase alone should stimulate some excitement I can assure you that it does not today. I'm on the bus.

Seated next to me is a saggy, shapeless, mouse of a man I'll call Howard. Howard apparently doesn't get enough sleep at home. He's slouched over, head tipped back, with a badly mustached mouth agape. He's using his stained trench coat as some sort of makeshift blanket. His shiny polyester dress shirt is unbuttoned just enough to tease at the horrors beneath it. To make matters worse, he's wearing Florsheims, slipshod and worn down to their plastic soles (are his sweat socks really beige?). He is propped up by a blue nylon gym bag which was likely a Paco Rabanne gift with purchase.

What Howard doesn't realize is that his misshapen backside is pressed against the strip you press to request the bus to stop. Every time the bus tips in one direction or the other, his back-fat is asking to get off. The driver has already asked him once to slouch in some other way as not to incessantly ring the bell. Howards not embarassed, though he has myriad reasons to be.

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