![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Last night as green_trilobite was reading Anansi Boys on the streetcar home, an old black man got on, carrying a brightly-coloured painting, and began shouting cheerfully at those of us in the back of the car. I think it was something to do with football. The young man behind us began describing this to the celphone that never left his ear:
"I can't understand a word he saying, dawg." The old man asked everybody if they were on crack - he wasn't, he said-- he was on Prozac:
"I'm getting off at Queen & Ossington., hee hee." Then he began offering round Timbits.
"Oh man," said the celphone guy, "He sprinkling crack on the donuts, man." By this time green_trilobite had put the Gaiman away, whispering that the book had gone stereo. The old man began looking to get off the car; green_trilobite noticed he'd left his painting and gave it to him; he'd missed Ossington.
"He gonna have to walk all the way back," chuckled the celphone guy. He annoyed me far more than the old yelling guy.
"I can't understand a word he saying, dawg." The old man asked everybody if they were on crack - he wasn't, he said-- he was on Prozac:
"I'm getting off at Queen & Ossington., hee hee." Then he began offering round Timbits.
"Oh man," said the celphone guy, "He sprinkling crack on the donuts, man." By this time green_trilobite had put the Gaiman away, whispering that the book had gone stereo. The old man began looking to get off the car; green_trilobite noticed he'd left his painting and gave it to him; he'd missed Ossington.
"He gonna have to walk all the way back," chuckled the celphone guy. He annoyed me far more than the old yelling guy.
