I snared a seat on the evening rush-hour Red Line. Two burly men in full-length black wool overcoats and business suits stood in front of me. While the rest of the train endured shoulder-to-shoulder forced intimacy with strangers, these men enjoyed an aura of space around them. Their booming voices and imposing statures coupled with their drunken lurchings and frenetic hand motions staved off any interloping contact.
It’s not common to see visibly inebriated businessmen on the subway at 6:30pm. I mean, this is Boston. Everyone knows the only proper method of transport when you’re besotted by spirits is taxi, so that you can hide the shame of your dirty dirty drunkenness from everyone except the nonjudgemental, equally-wasted taxi cab driver.
“You don’t wanna know and I don’t wanna tell you! You don’t wanna know and I don’t wanna tell you!” the man with purple scarf was saying over and over to his friend, who murmured back to him with the demeanor of an earnest drunk. I took note of the purple scarf because it swung not six inches from my face as he clung closer to the railing above our heads.
Then, loudly and annoyed, he half-yelled “Man, don’t make me toot my own horn!” and his friend shushed him and made calming overtures as they both darted looks around the train, as if suddenly aware of their captive audience of 100 silent people.
A laugh swelled in my throat. I’ve always loathed this saying, “toot my own horn,” for it strikes me as both vaguely sexual and scatological. But hearing it said with boozy bravado coupled with drunken anger was a real treat. It almost made up for being tormented by the purple scarf for the duration of my ride.
