There I was, nibbling my cuticles, as all matter of existence unfolded around me. To my right, a man with no lashes or eyebrows was sniffing something in a paper bag. So they really did stash it in paper bags. He looked at me and snorted. I averted my eyes. It wasn't that I was repulsed by him wiping his nose on the back of his New York Knicks' cap. Nor did I mind that he had dandruff and that he scratched himself and had no teeth. My looking away was an involuntary reaction, like a baby crying when it was born.
I turned my attention on a woman busy in the next row. She's was baby-talking to something, which wasn't a kid, nestled in the seat beside her. Since she was built like Raquel Welch - or Pamela Lee, to be up-to-date - it came as no surprise that all the sailors had turned to check her out. Now, they seemed to have noticed something else as well.
"What the hell's that smell?" asked one with a fat, pimply face.
"Wha- Oh shit" said another, who looked like Randy Quaid. "Dammit, lady, this ain't Paris you know. Ya mean to tell me the driver actually let you on with that? Did he think ya were blind or something?"
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