The Puking Car

In standard Seat Vulture fashion, I was ready when the Eight finally rocked into the station at Concorde. As the doors opened in front of me, I made to rush for the empty seats, but stopped just short of Seat Glory.

My toes were inches from a puddle of fresh, yellow-and-pink vomit. I wondered what the sick passenger had eaten while fleeing to the other end of the car. Easter candy? Eggs and ham?

Women pulled scarves over their noses to filter out the smell. Men discretely blocked the odor with finger mustaches.

The boy with his mother would have done well to follow suit in the minutes that followed. He stared at the vomit, grew wide-eyed, and began heaving himself, quickly and efficiently clearing the section of any remainding vomit-brave passengers.

The mother patted the child on the back, said "come on, baby," and when the doors opened, led him to the next car. There, no one would know his responsibility in the mess.