Yesterday on the T, as Nish, BJ and I rode the ridiculously packed car to Fenway Park, the strangest thing I've ever experienced in Boston occurred. I was holding on for dear life to the bar that hung from the roof of our train car, which caused my t-shirt sleeve to slip toward my shoulder and thus exposed a bit of my upper arm. Being of Irish, Scottish, Welch and German ancestry, my upper arm's hair follicles are sometimes red, especially after being in the sun.
This short young woman--so short that I barely knew she was behind me--hits Nish with the back of her hand rather forcefully, and then points to my arm, blurting out "is that a rash?" Nish of course had no way of responding to this so he just stood there, staring blankly back at her. She then poked me with her bony little finger and asked the same question, "Excuse me, is that a rash?"
My first reaction was to explain my skin heritage, but right before I began to do so I realized that she was fucking crazy, so I managed to reply under my breath "umm...no..." and immediately turned away.
She seemed satisfied with my answer, as she didn't feel the need to jab Nish or myself to further the conversation.