On board with drool

There is an unwritten rule in New York that you do not look at anyone on the subway. Looking at someone for 1 second results in an ugly look back. 2 seconds: a profanity-laden tirade. 3 seconds: a hard slap across the face. 4 seconds: a swift kick in the fanny. 5 seconds: death by drowning in rat urine.

But today, I had to stare. The guy sitting across from me had fallen into a deep sleep. So deep, in fact, that he had started to drool on himself by the time I saw him. I am not talking about a bit of saliva falling gently from the corner of his mouth; there were lines of dark drool streaming down his chin, leaving numerous water stains on his polo shirt. After two stops, he woke up and, noticing the liquid flowing from his mouth, sat up and wiped his face. And then he looked down and noticed the three pools of drool festering on his shirt. This was a image I could not have looked away from if you had paid me. Here sat an adult with drool covering his chest, wondering what he was going to do to hide his shame.

So, after noticing that I was staring at him, he opened his shoulder bag and wiped his shirt with the underside of the outer flap. Of course, this did nothing, and the drool remained. And I continued staring. I would have sat there staring for another hour if I hadn't reached my stop. Risking my life to see this, I'd do it all over again.