Subway Breakfast

Eating in the New York subway is like eating in a dirty bathroom.

This morning I see a man eating like an absolute pig sitting across from me. Coffee held high in his left hand; pastry held high in his right. Each bite torn from the pastry sends boulders of crumbs rumbling down the mountain of his lap.

A crumbled brown bag sitting in his lap falls to the floor. Without a free hand, he leaves the bag lie and allows it to become trash. Occasionally, a big crumb or nut springs from his pastry with no obvious provocation, commiting a suicide jump of sorts.

Now the man is finished gorging and the crumpled bag, a coffee-stained napkin, and an overturned dribbling paper coffee cup lie around his feet like dead soldiers. He is oblivious to them.

He brushes crumbs from his windbreaker and lap, but misses a good many of them. A few crumbs cling for life in his bushy mustache, but they wonder if its worth the trouble and peacefully, resolutely, they let go.