Another Day on the Subway

In response to the Daily Post Blog Prompt:  Fleeting

What I was doing in Queens 5 years ago, I can’t remember, but I know it was time to start home.  Caught the subway to take me into Bowling Green in Manhattan from there I could catch the ferry to take me back to Staten Island.

The subway was moderately crowded, full, but everyone had a seat.  I sat down on one of those side bench-like seats that face another long line of seats across the aisle.  I barely noticed the young man, 30-ish, sitting next to me, a hippie-type, bearded, cheaply, but adequately dressed for the cold weather; however, I did notice that balanced on his lap was a small oriental-designed chest. Immediately, he began a conversation.  When I take the subway hardly anyone ever looks at me, let alone talks to me.  Since I was a 67-year-old woman, and looked nothing like a hippie, I was surprised that a man of his age would want to talk to me, but I didn’t discourage his conversation.  He told me how he discovered that one could buy marijuana over the counter in a market in Chinatown.   I didn’t know how he could tell that I would be a person interested in this kind of information, as I was.

He opened the oriental-style box on his lap to show me.  The box was full of what appeared to be small cellophane-wrapped packages of marijuana.  After a quick peak on my part, he closed the lid.  I asked him what it was called and he said this Chinese name.  I took out a pen to write it down, but only got about half of it written down when the subway came to my stop, and I had to depart, before I got the entire name written down.  I tried googling the information I had managed to get, but never could find anything.



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