I like jeans apparently.

So the thought was running through my head, “Where the hell is that schedule?”

I had spent the last five minutes thumbing around the train station to see if I could figure out what time I would be arriving to my destination. Normally it takes an hour on weekdays, so while is was a safe assumption that it would take a similar amount of time on Saturday—I just wanted to double check.

As I come around the right side of the building, checking every wall and pillar, I see a man walking up to the train station. He had a dark earth tone shirt, light khaki pants, greenish baseball cap, and an unshaven jaw line. Now, a man walking to a train station isn’t unusual in general but particular gentleman has a single unusual feature. He was talking on his cell phone while walking towards the entrance of the train station, or first impressions would lead you to believe it was a cell phone. Turned out it was bone. Not a real bone, something from a living animal or even a replica. It was a large dog’s chew toy that had its plastic molding shaped in the form of a bone. One could easily make out the hole to allow air to escape from it as it squeaked because wear and tear has expanded the hold and dirt and oil has made it a darker prominent feature on it.

The green capped gentleman in question started saying hi to every as he passed them. There were a few awkward nods and whispered hi backs from the other people waiting.

While on the other side of the train station I was continuing poking around and shuffling back and forth. I had though I could enter a subsection of the train station to see if a schedule was contained inside, though to no avail as it was locked for the weekend. I lean my face really close to the class in dire hopes that a schedule is posted near the door.

“Hi.”
I turn around and the man in the greenish baseball cap is standing about three feet away from me.

“Uh… hello. How are you doing?” I reply.
“I’m doing good… good. How ‘bout you?”
Now the first thing I notice is that his upper front teeth are pushed in further in then the rest producing an unusually looking cusp. That and he isn’t a regular floss-er, or if he is—he isn’t one of renown skill.

“Good.” I slowly begin heading towards the end of the building, to continue my expedition of the lost schedule and suddenly the green capped gentleman asks a question that completely freezes me in my place.
“Those are some nice jeans.”

Now I don’t know about you… but in the movies, television shows, and comics I watched or read growing up, when someone declares that they like another person’s pants (also jacket, coat, hat, or boots [in particular]), that person was planning on taking that particular article of clothing… by force. I tense up for just a moment as I’m unsure of where the statement capped gentleman is leading.
“You wear jeans a lot?”

It had gone from a possible battle for me to retain my pantaloons to an extremely uncomfortable conversation with a stranger.

“Uh... Here and there?”
“I don’t get to wear jeans… I like them though.”
Now was my chance. I would have to call upon all my wit and mental prowess to disengage myself from this gentleman and conversation about a particular make of pants. Indeed, years of education and social interaction would be culminated as soon as I opened my mouth.

“Liking pants is good.”
I then walk away.