with a relaxed manner of someone used to having people pay attention to him, a tall, white man wearing a baby pink lacoste tennis shirt slinked inside the number 4 train as it laid over at the 86th station. he dragged this smooth-rolling, grey-spice callaway golf bag and he looked quite perplexed at why nobody was doing this for him. from the bag's uncovered mouth smiled 14 iron molars. after smoothly settling down to an empty seat beside the sliding doors, mr. golf man reluctantly hugged his bag to let this rushing mexican boy - too late, perhaps for his weekend morning shift - scamper off the train, his hair still dripping wet and sleep still in his eyes.
