As he stepped off the train, Joseph's mind raced with all the thoughts resulting from the scene that had just transpired. The drunk man was a poet. As he had lumbered down the train car towards him, Joseph recognized him, certain to be the only person to ever have recognized him in this state. Joseph had gone to a small auditorium at the university two years prior to see the poet speak. The small audience was scattered throughout the venue. Joseph himself dared not sit in any of the empty front few rows, instead finding a dark section along the side. The poet read some of his work, told a short story from his youth, and asked if there were any questions. There were not, so he posed his own. "Why?" He played the part of someone who could answer, gesticulating across the stage in his corduroy pants and tweed jacket. Joseph no longer remembers the content of the answer, but he knows the consequence: Joseph became a writer. And now, two weeks after returning from his book tour, he was confronted with the poet, drunk, on a train.
He walked down the aisle and plopped down right next to Joseph. He smelled.