He’s a tall white kid, about 16, long brown hair, goatee, wearing loafers, jeans, t-shirt, and a brown jacket, all very clean looking. He very quickly jumps the turnstile beside me at Union Station, landing a bit heavily. I give a quick “Yo” to the WMATA security personnel who are helping tourists nearby, but they seem fairly unconcerned.
“You do this everyday?” I ask the turnstile jumper with a slight chuckle as we walk down the escalator. “Don’t you have a ticket?”
“Don’t have money,” he replies, “and I can’t, like, beg for money, you know?” Slight midwestern accent, I think.
“So where are you from? Where are your parents?”
“I don’t live with my parents,” he laughs. “I’m from Virginia, the suburbs.”
“Great Falls?” I immediately think of Borf.
“Naw,” he says, “But I have friends from there, if their parents knew,” and here he holds his cellphone (Motorola flip phone of some sort) to his face, “they’d be all like, ‘send a helicopter to pick him up right now!'” He laughs.
“Um, okay, good luck, then,” I walk off, rolling my eyes. It’s not a very bad cellphone either.