1 Mulligan for Grandpa Metro

There's this old guy who stands in front of the Davis T stop every morning and hands out the Metro. He looks kinda like what Grandpa Addams would look like if he lost 40 pounds, grew a few inches, and ditched the cape.

He yells, with craaazy syllabic elongation: "meeeeeeeeeetro paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapaaahhh... get yo' meeeeeeeeeeeeetrooooo paaaaaaaaaaapaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh...."

It's cool and everything, makes me think of ol'times when I would get up at dawn and shear the sheep and play stickball with the neighborhood boys and try to put trinkets in an old tree trunk while deftly avoiding Boo Radley.

But, like, so, this morning, I walk by him, and I actually want a meeeeeeetrroooo papaaaahhhh. But he's going all Ray Charles head-fake on me and refuses to catch my glance for long enough to give me a damn paper. So I walk a little ways down the street to the actual Metro box-stand-distribution-thing (what's this called? yea, that.) and begin to open it, and he comes shuffling after me: "young lady, young lady in pink..." and hands me one. But my hand is already in the box, clasping my own meeeeeetrrrroooo paaaapaaah. So now I have two.

It was like kinda like Manny and Coco bungling it up in centerfield on Sunday. Except that while their mishap resulted in an inside-the-park-HR, I simply left with two periodicals.

Wow, um, uh, yeea.

**flickr nod to Harvard_Avenue.