Thursday after work the wife and I went out for Tapas with our friends. We were there at 6:15, so we were the only people in the restaurant as New Yorkers like to eat late. Plus it was rainy weather, but that is beside the point. On our way home we got off the subway at our stop and were soon behind a man covered in vomit. I'm guessing his own vomit. He was stumbling around and had real trouble with the stairs. He had it in his hair, all down the front of his shirt, on his back, on his hands, everywhere. He was carrying a sport coat, covered in throw up. This was a nicely dressed man, not a bum. He seemed completely unaware of the fact he was covered in vomit as well. He was like a vomit zombie. We were maintaining a safe distance. We didn't want to touch him for obvious reasons, but I didn't want him to erupt again. One man behind us was a little irritated at the slow pace on the stairs and stormed past us as I tried to utter, "Watch out for the chunky monkey in front of us." At the gate my wife made a run for it and got around him and ahead of him on the stairs to the street. I stayed safely behind him. Finally at the street he wandered off in a different direction, spreading his holiday cheer. Just another day in the city.
Perhaps he ate a list.
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