“The machine was broken,” I said, looking up at the officer from my seat on the rumbling train, like a busted stowaway. “Can I just buy a ticket from you?”
“It’s too late,” he snapped. “There are many places you can buy. Now it’s more expensive.” A vein popped on his neck as he scribbled my citation in his black gloves.
“What’s going on?” the other officer asked, stomping down the aisle to us.
“This asshole doesn’t have a ticket.”
They shook their heads, I paid by card, and they left.
The other passengers looked away.
Reckless, rotten rat; enemy of the people.
Back of the envelope exchange rate: the fine worked out to 20 bucks.
I got off at my stop and spent the day at the beach.