The Subway Ride

            Everyman tucked a worn copy of Chuang Tse’s writings into his bookbag as an onslaught of people crammed into the subway. A man with plastic bag hair and bare calves full of Botox pressed up next to him. Disgusted, Everyman turned away and fumbled his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, only to have it snatched away by the man’s taco-stained fingers. “Secondhand smoke,” the man snarled. “You should know better.” At each stop they were pressed tighter together, the air was becoming clogged with plastic. At his stop Everyman could not even force his way off the subway.