I remember siting in a dimly lit carriage, the smell of beer and rank body odor slithering throughout. Teenagers must be aboard, I whisper. As the clime appreciably improves, droves of mindless party-goers litter the trains stumbling to and fro in alcohol-induced stupefaction. The silence with which the youths embark the train belies their capacity for the rambunctious. Each one carefully glides down the aisle with an obvious sense of self-consciousness. Always towards the back.
Everyone can see your bag of tall boys, I’d mumble.
A rough tug of the train’s departure is swiftly followed by the crack and hiss of light beer. Slurps and gulps soon resonate throughout the metal tube. Some cheers and a few howls pass before the feeling of exasperation overtakes me. It’s not long before exasperation is overtaken by rage as I hear the brief acknowledgements of rambunctious beer culture.
Aluminum crashing. Beer splashing.
Sigh. “Amateurs,” I lament.
I stroke my beard with a firm hand and then reach toward my leather satchel. Along the exterior, my hand follows the impressions of two cold twenty-four ounce cylinders.
“Only 45 minutes more,” I whisper to myself. “And then… I’m in the city.”