Last night, after a morose Super Bowl viewing (Jeff and his friend Mike are Pats fans), we clambered onto an A train at 81st Street. On the floor, feet from where we sat down, was a take-out soda cup filled with yellow liquid. No top.
"I hope that's not urine!" I said cheerfully.
"It's either that, beer, or ... Mountain Dew?" Mike said. On the subway, though, the general rule is: when in doubt, it's pee.
We could barely carry on a conversation, so transfixed were we by the cup that, despite the wrenching twists and turns, did not runneth over. Then a woman got on the train. She sat down right next to the cup, looked down, and nonchalantly picked it up with thumb and forefinger to move it under the seat.
Only in New York are people so tired that they will touch probable urine just to sit down.