Or, That Time I Got Secondhand High and Morally Confronted Before Coffee

There are things I expect when I step onto a DC Metro platform in the early morning hours.

A delay? Of course.

A mysterious puddle that defies explanation or physics? Absolutely.

A train with the wrong color line, no destination, and the personality of a cat with commitment issues? Standard.

But a surprise ankle-monitor-wearing, weed-smoking, quarter-soliciting philosopher appearing out of nowhere to demand both my pocket change and my moral clarity before sunrise?

That, dear reader, was new.

ACT I: THE MATERIALIZATION

It is 6:20 AM.

Which, for those who’ve never tried to function before 7 a.m. on public transportation, is not a time of clarity. It is a time of barely sentient survival.

I was standing on the platform, doing my usual pre-train routine:

• Half-asleep.
• One eye open.
• Staring blankly at the “Arriving in 2 min” sign that hasn’t updated in 10.
• Trying to manifest caffeine through sheer rage.

Then—he appeared.

I didn’t see him at first.

No. I smelled him.

The unmistakable, foggy hug of marijuana hit me like a surprise pop quiz in high school.

Followed by a waft of something else—sweat, life decisions, and maybe lemon furniture polish?

Then he was there.

Standing in front of me.

Too close.

He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity that lets you know you’ve already been selected.

He lifts his pants leg with a flourish like he’s about to reveal a magic trick.

But instead of pulling a rabbit from a hat, he points proudly to his ankle monitor.

“You see this?” he says.

Then he flashes a card at me that I will generously call a “credential,” though I’m 80% sure it was an expired Red Lobster rewards card.

Now, I didn’t catch what he was selling.

Soap? Candy? Repentance?

I was still trying to remember my name.

So, I defaulted to commuter autopilot and said the universal phrase that signals “please go away”:

“I’m not buying.”

ACT II: THE RIGHTEOUS FURY OF A SOLICITOR DENIED

Wrong move.

Because in that moment, I didn’t just decline a sale.

I activated something.

He snapped into action, not just shouting at me, but at the entire spiritual ecosystem of the Metro platform.

“And this is why we rob y’all! This is why we SNAP!”

“We ASK nice, but y’all IGNORE US!”

“Then you wonder why people like me LOSE IT!”

Sir.

Please.

It is not yet 6:30.

We don’t have the emotional infrastructure to hold a community healing circle before the sun comes up.

I turned up the volume on my headphones to “block out generational trauma” levels and did what every Metro rider is trained to do in crisis:

Stare into the distance like you’re processing taxes.

Around me, the other commuters perfected the art of Avoidant Posture:

• One woman started reading the safety signage like it was a thrilling novel.
• A guy pulled out his phone and opened Notes app like he was writing a Grammy speech.
• A teen took out a bagel and bit into it with such intensity I thought he was trying to chew through time.

We were all collectively praying for the train to show up.

ACT III: THE TRAIN TO NOWHERE

Finally. FINALLY.

The train arrived in a cloud of dust, disappointment, and zero useful information.

• No line color.
• No destination.
• Just the vague sense that it might, at some point, go somewhere.

Like commuters playing roulette, we all boarded, hoping to land somewhere between “my stop” and “not Virginia.”

I climbed aboard, collapsed into a seat, and silently congratulated myself on surviving the platform sermon.

I was wrong.

ACT IV: RETURN OF THE RHETORICAL THREAT

There he was.

The same man.

Seated? No. That would be too easy.

He was moving from seat to seat, eyes fiery, asking for 39 cents.

Not 40. Not 50. Not “anything helps.” No. He had a very specific financial goal.

Also, he was still smoking. On the train.

The smell clung to the air like an emotional support skunk.

And every few minutes, he’d break from coin solicitation to offer moral critiques of each person who declined.

“Don’t give me 39 cents? That’s fine. But when I rob you, don’t say I ain’t warn you!”

What a delightful motivational speech to kick off a Tuesday.

ACT V: MORAL WHIPLASH

Here’s the thing:

As I sat there—wide-eyed, under-caffeinated, and lightly marinaded in secondhand weed—I actually had a moment of clarity.

Was he wrong?

He was being aggressive, sure.

Invasive? Yes.

Blunt? Absolutely.

But underneath the verbal barrage was… a legitimate question.

What is my social responsibility here?

Is it my job to help him?

Am I complicit in the system that failed him?

Does saying “no” to 39 cents make me the villain in a story I didn’t ask to be part of?

It was giving existential dread meets performance art meets public transit panic.

We say we want people to “ask nicely,” but when they do, we ignore them.

We say we don’t want crime, but we also don’t want to give out change before coffee.

We want safety, cleanliness, kindness, order—on a train system that can’t even consistently label what direction it’s going.

ACT VI: THE RIDE OF REFLECTION

He got off two stops later, with no coins collected, muttering angrily about “fake people in suits.”

And there we sat, like survivors of a strangely intimate flash mob, wondering what just happened.

Someone coughed.

A woman pulled out hand sanitizer and wiped the air.

Another person whispered, “Did he say thirty-nine cents?” as if that detail still haunted them.

And I, in my seat by the window, stared into the tunnel wondering:

• Did I fail a moral test?
• Was this just an elaborate Tuesday morning parable?
• Is it too late to move to a bike-friendly city with fewer metaphysical breakdowns on public transport?

Final Thoughts: We’re All on This Train Together

Look, I don’t have answers.

I don’t know where the train is going.

I don’t know where that man came from.

I don’t even know if Ashburn is real or just a test of commuter endurance.

But I do know this:

We are all stuck on this semi-functional, emotionally volatile, often strange ride together.

We all want to feel safe.

We all want to feel seen.

And some mornings, we all want to survive long enough to get coffee without a life crisis.

So yes, maybe I could’ve said more.

Maybe I could’ve dug out change.

Maybe I could’ve offered kindness at a moment it mattered.

But also—maybe Metro could start by explaining where the hell the train is going.

Unspoken Rule of the Metro #58:

If someone tries to sell you a life lesson and threatens to rob you in the same breath, it’s okay to just nod politely and check if you’re on the right train.

Stay safe, stay kind, and bring headphones that can drown out existential commentary before 7 AM.

Until next time on Metro Confessions, where the only thing more unpredictable than the schedule is the human condition.