His hands were cracked and dirty, stained from years of manual labor. The tips of his yellowed nails, caked in a greasy black oil, were white from the force of his grip as he clutched a small plastic cooler tightly to the lapel of his tattered jacket. It was faded green—standard army issue—and looked as though it had seen the majority of the past century’s wars.

Bootleg jeans fell below his waist. Full exposure to a pair of boxers that had not seen the inside of a washing machine since Bush the Senior’s Presidency, was saved by a thin piece of twine, crudely tied into a knot four inches below his exposed belly button. A million tiny strands of white, torn denim, adorned what was left of his mismatched tennis shoes.

Both eyes closed, he rocked slowly back and forth mumbling to himself. A cloud of visible stench wafted through the air with each swing of his body. His right hip lifted, and a loud “pfft” echoed from his backside. It was then that I threw up on the lady next to me.

I don’t take the bus anymore.