Reconstitute

The train's PA system crackled to life, and through the impenetrable static of corroding sound equipment and insurmountable apathy, the train operator announced the incidental route changes. "Schmr intrrr prrrichktt." it seemed to say, with great authority.

Groans all down the car, instant camaraderie. People shift in the hard plastic seats, eyes roll doubly dramatic to compensate for how little exasperation they can get across with masks on. Horace, in particular, is uneasy. "Fuck. Goddamnit." he grumbles. He has no mask on, nor did he roll his eyes. Nobody is paying attention to Horace, but everyone has noted him. He's been grumbling loudly since he got on to the train. At first, Carmen had thought the grumbling was just an act, a ploy to discomfit the other commuters so they'd clear a way for him. An old man act. It woudn't be first time she'd seen that behavior, and act or no, it had certainly worked. When he got on, bitching and swinging his grocery bags and clanging his cane, a young couple had gotten out of their seats and out of his way, ostentatiously ushering him into the vacated seats. The seats directly opposite her.

Horace looked up. He didn't like what he saw. Of course, he never did, and it was with no special animosity that he glared at the young woman and infant across the train, just the usual. His usual. A bitter life had made a thorny old man, and he sat shooting barbed scowls at anyone who made the mistake of eye contact.

"Shit! Fuck!" Horace said, daring anyone to countradict his declaration. "Gonna be late! No goddamn A train?! Shit!"

It was quiet on the train, excepting the carriage's churn. He sat, wheezing. Horace looked up and down the train, hunting, but the passengers looked down at their phones, at the advertisements overhead, anywhere but at Horace. Except for that damn baby. The baby was staring back at him. Horace stared back. "Shit!" he tried again. The baby gurgled, and Carmen shifted her child in her arms and spoke steely, drawing Horace's attention upward. "The A train is fine. The D isn't running." she said. "What's that? No, I know what it said, lady!" Horace barked. "'A' train! That's not gonna work, not for me, no, it's not gonna work." His voice trailed off into a mumble. Carmen bristled, "D trains aren't running this whole weekend. Didn't you see the fiers posted at the station?" "Lady!" said Horace, "I know what I heard. Shit! And I can't be late." He pulled his grocery bag up to his lap, and looked furtively up and down the train. Still, no eye contact. Carmen was glaring at him still, but she softened her voice a little. "Sir, you're going to want to get off at the next stop if you need to get up the D line. In any case, they've got the bussses going; it's not going to slow you down more than a couple minutes." Horace clutched tightly at his bundle. "You don't get it. If I don't get these to our guy on time--" Horace said, his rheumy eyes widening. He broke off and gulped. Carmen glanced down to the bag of apples and box cereal in Horace's arms. "What'll happen? You'll get real cranky?" she baited. "Goddamnit! They'll bust my--" Horace reached for his bad knee and broke off again. He looked dumbly back up to Carmen, then back to his bad knee. "I'm real sorry, miss." Horace said. The train stopped, and he hobbled off.