Why I was Late For School Today

"Do you got a rail?" He was already holding a lighter under the brown spoon. For some reason I was surprised that it looked just like the spoons in my kitchen.
"Naw."
"Mine's broke."
"You can still use it. You just gotta cut it open and push the plunger back in. I helped a guy do that in prison once. Hey Kid, you got a knife."
Me. "No, sorry." I dont give my knife to people cooking heroin on CTA platforms.
"Johnny Cash, man. Fuck yeah," the White guy said.
If I stopped wearing t-shirts, I'd stop meeting people. The other guy, whom he'd just met. Was calmly trying to bite off the plastic end. The first guy was tall, with light blue eyes and longish patches of hair spread out on his neck and chin. He was Boston Irish, an old cowpunk. We talked about Steve Goodman and the Clash, Black Flag and David Allan Coe.
"He's racist but he's funny. You ever hear 'My Girlfriend Fucked a Nigger'?"
"Nope."
"Awful song, real good though."
His tattoos were all done in the 70s, wizards and skulls mostly. "This one here is my first wife."
On his forearm was a naked chick, holding a porcelain mask. Her face was a red-eyed banshee of a skull. "When I married her, she still had the mask on."
"Probly good you got out then."
"Yeah, she was no good. Great titties though."
He swiped his hand across his nose and threw a handful of snot on the tracks. "This one's me." It was a prison tattoo, a grinning jester in two colors.
The other dude was focused. People were passing by and each one made a face. A Latino guy smiled, to me; a businesswoman rolled her eyes; an older black lady shook her head. He had big veins. He found one just by clenching a fist. He stuck himself just above a yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet. I chuckled. He threw his rig, I think it's called a rig, onto the tracks, pocketing the spoon and laid back on the bench. We woke him when the train rolled up, and rode off.