On the Train to NYC

Last week, I was on the train to NYC with my brother and parents. My parent's had bought Yankee tickets and I agreed to go, even though I am now a converted Mets' fan. Still, I never pass up a professional ballgame. Especially, when your parent's will still buy you $7 hot dogs at the age of 23.
There is nothing like going to a major league game. Every piece of poetic bullshit you have already heard or read about it true, so I won't bore you with the details. The sights, the smells, the green grass, the dimensions, the sound of the crack of the bat, the scoreboards tallying up numbers, the roar of the fan next to you. You've all heard about it in one documentary or another, or experienced it in person.
But, not many warn you about the rude guy you meet on the train going to the game. And I'm not talking about the subway. I'm talking about the straight up train, from South Amboy NJ to New York Penn Station. On the morning of last Wednesday, I met my family (2 parents, 1 little brother whose reaching 16), at the train station. We boarded. I was tired. My brother proceeded to eat his egg and steak sandwich my parents purchased for him at WaWa. He opened his blueberry soda and proceeded to spill half of it on the floor next to his steak and eggs scraps. I was dead tired.
I was so fucking tired, in fact, that I asked to switch seats with him, even though he held the coveted window seat. "Brian," I said. "Can I have your seat?" I needed to rest my weary head against the pane and try to catch some shut eye before hitting the House that Ruth Built. He agreed.
My feet slide on the wet, sticky floor of overflown blueberry soda and eggs. Oh yeah, and steak. My 15 and a half year old brother managed to make the floor as ransacked as a bum pissing on it while eating a cat's stomach. It was a moment for Ripley's Believe it or Not. My feet could not sit still, seemingly floating on the sticky surface.
Finally, a few towns in to our trip to NY, with my head rested against the glass, I opened one eye to take note of a suave man who took the two-seater in front of us. He had his hair slicked back, and partially frosted. He carried a leather briefcase. He wore a toilet-bowel blue suit coat over a cat-vomit shirt that looked hideous, but probably cost him up to a thousand bucks! His watched glisten as the sunlight beamed off the dials into my red eyes.
I continued to doze on and off during our trip, wishing the train would stop shifting so much. I remember at one point, I coughed. Then I coughed again. I woke up once and sneezed. Finally, I woke up, and asked my mother, who was seated behind me, if she had packed any drinks. My mother, always the walking survival kit, packs hearty food, snacks, drinks, and medications no matter where my bones have ventured in life. Sure enough, she handed me an Iced Tea bottle which I promptly downed in one gulp.
After I finished the Iced Tea I stuck the bottle in between the seat and the wall of the train, in front of that suave fella I mentioned earlier, and closed my eyes. My shoes continued to skated amongst the spilt pop and breakfast sandwich remains. I opened them again to see the man in front of me's head looking at me rather nervously as he chattered on his cellphone in some foreign accent (I believe it was Italian. You know, I took 2 semesters in college so I'm fucking brilliant at it).
My eyes remanded shut until I heard a voice from over the seat .
"Are you sick?"
"What?" I said completely confused as to who said what.
"Are you sick?" the guy in front of me asked, speaking over his shoulder, most of his face concealed by the high blue seats in front of me.
Outraged by the stupidity of the moment, I retorted, "Am I sick? No."
The man shook his head in disbelief, placing his sweaty palm up to his shiny forehead. "Do you have a cold?"
"No."
He had it. "You keep coughin. And sneezin. And coughin. And you keep puttin dis bot'l in da seat," he said motioning to the Iced Tea bottle I had wedged into between his seat in the wall.
Who the fuck was this guy? I wasn't sick. I was sick and tired of being tired, and decided to rest my eyes. With blueberry soda and steak and eggs beneath my feet and an empty bottle fit for recycling I decided to wedge the future of an inconvenient truth in between a seat and myself. Now this guy in a fucked up suit and an accent, fit for fucking everything that cast a shadow, decided to question my health. I don't think so.
I promptly wedged my bottle back in between the seat and the train's wall. His head began to percolate, bobbing up and down. He couldn't take it, his comb-over and all. He promptly spun in his seat, and like a little bitch, and smacked the empty bottle, with open palm, in my direction. It flew, lifelessly, and hit me in the crotch.
I shit you not. He then said, while stammering, "I don't need... your.... your... cooties."
I laughed. I wanted to slaughter this man with his briefcase and his endless mid-train cell calls and his proverbial ladder he attempted to climb everyday. "Cooties?" I said. "Holy shit. Nice fuckin' suit, buddy," I said as I wedged my knee right into the back of his seat.
I began to cough, faking a new incurable sickness, telling my brother I could not get rid of the phlegm, all while wedging my empty bottle between the seat. Finally, our foreign, and financially well to do friend moved to the front of the train car. He shot me a look. I waved to him, happily, although dying of an incurable sickness.
When we finally stopped, my brother was laughing. I saw that man stand up and get off the train. I waved while performing licking on my empty bottle of Ice Tea, vulgarly. I don' think he saw me. But if anyone ever questions your free right to be sick in a public place, at any time, just think of the business men in gaudy suits and hair grease who get away with more bullshit than you can even conjure up. It's unfathomable sometimes. Give the motherfucker next to you cooties. He's an asshole for questioning if you even have it. And by the way, Mr. motherfucker, I have allergies. And the Yankees beat the Rays 2-1. Let's Go Rays!