Dressing Down

This morning, a man approached me on the train platform and asked, "You don't have a match, DO you?" Emphasis on DO. Defying me to answer in the affirmative. Why did he assume I didn't have a match? How did he know? Could he tell from the healthy glow of my skin that I'm not a smoker? Even wearing my Friday dress-down jeans and my black Big Smith coat, do I seem to be such a clean square fellow, untainted by the costly allure of the wild tobacky?

Later, while waiting in line at Dunkin' Donuts, I spied a young, White panhandler sitting in a corner. Apparently, he beseeched the woman in front of me, who rebuffed his beggary with an admonishment that nearly elicited my applause. She was Black and she spoke with one of those magnificent Island or African accents as she said, "Don't even ask me. You're young and strong and you can get a job."

After ordering my toasted bagel and green tea, I stood near the young man. "Sir," he said in a half whisper. I wanted to say, "You heard the woman," but I could not muster the energy to respond.