The greaseball with the “Mets Suck” t-shirt on at Hawthorne station this morning.
Geez, where to start?
I came down the stairs to the platform, a bit groggy after an extended break. You were sitting with your girlfriend on the bench. You were wearing a white t-shirt with a large Mets logo across the front and back. I was silently impressed that you stuck with the Mets colors in the heart of Yankee country amidst this woeful season.
Then I looked closer, whereupon I spied not only the lamest attempt at facial hair since Ethan Hawke in “Training Day”, but a shirt that, in fact, said Mets Suck, and featured a Mr. Met with a frown on his face.
OK, Mets suck, you say. Welcome to the Stating the Obvious Pantheon, pal. I can only assume your Rainy Days Suck t-shirt was in the wash (though, frankly, the concept of “wash” seemed a bit foreign to you), as was your Divorce is Difficult hoodie and your Satan is a Dick muscle T.
The 8:43 pulled up. Your girlfriend broke free from your clingy grasp. The two of you shared a greasy kiss before she climbed onto the train, and you, like Jeter after his double 0-fer yesterday, remained stuck behind.
I thought for a second you might then climb into the Yankee pinstriped Jeep Cherokee I saw at the station last week. Then your vehicle became clearer in my head: the white Yugo with the pinstripes you painted yourself.
Happy Trails,
Trainjotting