It Is Rather Nice J. and I were sitting on the train heading out to a friend's house for an afternoon of BBQ and excessive drinking. We were sitting in opposite seats facing each other discussing random events and making jokes that probably helped clear our end of the car. We rolled into Oakland for a stop and a few people came meandering in. Included in the lot as a rather large man. Which is to say a behemoth a meat sack. He was talking somewhat boisterously in the way that the slightly intoxicated have a tendency to do. And sat down in the seat behind me. We pulled out of the station and began a high speed assault towards the East. As the time passed out conversation turned to Zola and a book of his I was not familiar with. I was leaning forward exposing the back of my Fulton St. (God rest her slutty soul) shirt and its delicate sentiment of "go fuck yourself". Suddenly I felt a hand grabbing at my shoulder. I turned my left and saw this man's hammock of hand tugging at my shirt like a puppy nipping on the heals of their kin. I moved from his hand to his face just in time for him to say, "I really want your shirt". He had a look on his face that made it absolutely impossible to tell how serious he was. I this, I thought, one of those I'm not actually asking I'm telling things? I forced a weak, sputtering laugh out from between my lips to let him know that I was in on his joke, and boy was it funny. That joke. I then turned back to face J. figuring that if he punched me in the back of the neck I'd at least see it coming in his flinch.
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