The man sitting across from me on the train looks about 60 years old. His hair is graying and his face shows minor wrinkles. Emblazoned on the gray-white t-shirt that covers his pot belly is a message. In bright red seventy point serifed letters are these words:
to my opinion.
I've seen this guy before. Same shirt, too. It's like he reserves that shirt for when he goes out in public or rides the train. Maybe it's the only shirt he has, I don't know. The expression on his face seems aware and hawkish, but bitter. It's like he's waiting for something. I choose not to meet his eyes but instead find myself fixating on his shirt, on those big red letters.
As the train pulls into downtown a cheery man in a brown suit comes and sits down next to me. That is, he sits directly across from the man in the t-shirt.
"I noticed," began the cheery man, "your shirt - 'Everybody's entitled to your opinions...'".
"I saw you," growled the opinionated man, "I saw you and that lady over there looking at me and laughing. So fuck you."
"I'm sorry, I was just trying to make conversation..." said the friendly man, quickly getting up out of his seat and moving towards the exit. As he reached the door and stepped out onto the station the man in the t-shirt shouted at him:
"Fuck off, you, if ya know what's good for you! Damn right fucker."
So, I thought, your opinion is "fuck you"? Thanks anyway, but I don't want it. A few stops later the seething bundle of malice in the shape of a man gets up and walks off the train, looking for someone else to ask him his opinion.