Dreams of the Quill

According to KingCrazyGenius, the wearer of a badass goatee, Joe needs to begin growing a badass goatee.

“I’m fine,” pouted Ms. Harris as she opened her car door and dropped her bag in the passenger seat.

“Come on,” said Joe as calmly as he could as he jogged toward the parked car. “You’ll have an accident.” His boss fell silent, gazing down at her steering wheel. “Come on,” repeated Joe, reaching out and gripping her arm just above the elbow.

She conceded silently, closing the car door and pocketing her keys.

“Subway is okay, right?” Joe asked.

Ms. Harris nodded.

Joe let go of his boss’s arm and set off on foot for the subway station, walking in the same direction he always did. He looked back furtively and saw to his relief that Ms. Harris was following, just a few steps behind. He sighed. He had no idea what he was doing, he just knew it was the right thing to do. Drunken driving had bad results. He recalled the ceremony remembering a few of his high school classmates who made bad decisions following a prom after-party. He wanted to avoid more cases like those, if he could.

After about ten minutes of trotting along quietly, they reached the escalators down to the subway. Joe insisted that they cross the street and take the stairway entrance.

At the turnstile, Joe produced his ticket.

“Which line do you need?” he asked, figuring that he should check in on his boss one last time before they parted ways.

“Line?” echoed Ms. Harris. “I dunno the system.”

“What direction are you headed in?” asked Joe. He was worried about her safety but he was also angry. What kind of elite idiot didn’t know the subway lines? The price of gas, which had been astronomically high for the past five years, was an indication that Ms. Harris was in a class beyond Joe, and he hated that. Cars weren’t even that useful in Queens!

“East,” she answered after thinking about it.

Joe sighed. He was also headed east.

“Stick with me, then,” he said, slipping his ticket through the machine and walking out onto the appropriate platform. Seconds later, he heard the sound of crying. He elbowed his way back to the turnstile through the throngs of commuters and saw Ms. Harris sobbing by the ticket booths. Passersby were giving the woman a wide berth and Joe accusatory glares.

Joe grew angry quickly. He had brought Ms. Harris to the the station in the hopes of avoiding trouble and now she was causing trouble for him in the form of a bothersome scene.

Joe exited the platform and charged over to his boss.

“What’s wrong, Harris?” he demanded.

“No… money,” she sobbed. “Purse… in… car.” Joe cupped his face in his hands, massaged his temples, and then stepped up to the machine and inserted a twenty.

“Damn it, Harris,” he said, “you owe me a ticket.”