I’ve learned to expect anything when I ride MARTA–and that’s half the fun. Whether it’s a man who squeals and holds a toy light saber at imaginary Stormtroopers, or the toothless woman who winks at me and tells me she’s God’s gift to men, I usually smile and go about my business. Not so yesterday.
“So that’s how it is, is it?” the man yelled into his cell phone. He was seated behind me on the eastern bound train toward Decatur. I was trying to read, but resigned myself to the fact that at least my stop was next and I could escape this man soon.
“Show me the birth certificate, then!” Oh no, it’s the Obama birth certificate again. I turned the page, but I wondered whom the man was speaking with. An attorney? Constituency services? A poor AT&T customer service representative outside of Delhi?
“And I’m telling you, Donald Trump wants to see my birth certificate–my birth certificate–no one else’s!” The man beat his chest with his free hand, like a lazy King Kong impersonator. I wondered why Donald Trump would want to see this man’s birth certificate. The train started to pull into the Inman Park Station, so I stood up.
I got a good look at the man. Although he didn’t appear homeless, he had a scraggly beard and a weathered face. He was dressed in athletic shoes, jeans, and a sweatshirt. I also noticed that he was talking on a Fisher Price cell phone. He wasn’t talking to anyone.
“Well, let me tell you something,” the man shouted.
The doors opened, and I disembarked the train.