he trenchcoat mafia has given up on reigns of terror to snapchat themselves vaping behind Rite Aid. They stand four parking spaces apart, silent and hunched over phones, attempting to get the best shot of themselves blowing fruit punch scented smoke. They reach social media climax simultanously, wordlessly shoving their phones into baggy pockets and slouching towards the subway. The greasier of the two pulls out a dull metal object and I take a quick glance around to see if there’s a convienient barrier I can duck behind if shit pops off. But no, I realize it’s just a flask of some special concoction of vape fluid that he’s clumsily pouring into his space-age e-hookah.
An Ashmont train pulls in and I sit down across from an anachronism whose age I’d place in the low sixties. Bolo tie and black leather vest compete with late-model bluetooth earpiece hooked to wraparound sunglasses. Drinking a diet coke from a coozie. Patriotic New Balances propped up on a hard shell suitcase screened with an American flag. I’m breathless.
Two labradoodles get on with a couple in tow.
Vaping outside the rite aid.