Riding On The Metro

DC Metro on a Sunday morning is such a good opportunity for people-watching. The mix of riders is usually the same but they never fail to delight and entertain. You've got the over-acheiving brunch crowd looking their cosmopolitan best, the green-horn tourists from the outter limits of exburbia fixated on the metro map and constantly asking aloud "How many more stops?", eager Nats game attendees such as myself hustling to get to the ballpark in time for BP, and of course my personal favorite, the Shame Riders.

The Shame Riders are always sprinkled about the cars with their wrinkled clothes and just-got-fucked-bed-head hairdos. Yesterday, the Shame Riders were represented by one struggling individual I could not help but feel sorry for. He was standing next to me for most of the ride and possessed all of the classic features. Our friend was wearing a suit with just a dirty t-shirt, held a crumpled dress shirt in his hand and cradled a large bottle of Orange Gatorade in the crook of his arm, and on his face wore a weary expression of hungover pain mixed bits of regret and disbelief. He even had the classic Metro Hungover Pose which is executed by leaning against one of the vertical rails, grabbing the nearest overhead rail, and then resting one's forehead against the back of the hand with eyes half shut. I've seen it a thousand times (done it once or twice myself) and it never gets old. It's like a great painting in that with one captured moment it tells you everything about all of the moments leading up to it.