Freaks of Late-Night Commuting

I don't go out much late at night.  Maybe it's because I prefer bed to interacting with more people than absolutely necessary in a day.  My bedtime is right around 10:30, and if I'm up much past then I'm usually pretty cranky.  Or drunk.
During the summer, there's many free things to do in Boston.  (Planning all these events when all the college kids are home is a pretty big fuck-you to them, eh?)  There's Pops concerts, Shakespeare on the Common, and the WBZ Free Friday Flix.  A large screen is set up on the Hatch Shell, and people bring their kids and a bottle of wine to watch a film that most of the family can handle.  My friend Christine asked me to go with her to see "Holes" tonight, so since there's not a whole lot of summer left (agh!) I decided to drink some caffeine and head out with her.
Our ride to the movie was fairly uneventful.  We sat down and started watching the movie.  About midway through, some people walked over and tried finding a seat.  Apparently they stood in front of someone while scouting because a screaming match started.
"Hey bitch, why don't you sit down?"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"You're in my damn way.  Move or sit the hell down!"
"Goddamn it, fine.  You fucking broad.  Bitch."
PG rated film, yes.  R rated audience, for sure.
Christine seemed to think that the interlopers may have been drugged out, but I thought that one of them was retarded the way he was moving.  We'll never know.
The movie ended (damn Susan Serandon is skinny) and Christine and I shook out our blanket and headed for the train.  We started walking down Arlington street toward the T, when we saw a gaggle of women that looked like prostitutes.  They were standing by the Public Gardens, all dressed in black and white, with some man photographing them in their giggling girly glory.  Their skirts barely covered their asses, and they stood precariously on the uneven cobblestones in their high heels.
"You watch," Christine said, "you'll see lots of prostitutes and strippers around for the next couple of weeks.  They're here to entertain the Democrats."
Shaking our heads, we walked into the train station.  There was a group of college guys singing "Brick House" at the tops of their lungs as they boarded the train to the next bar.  They were dressed in the Boston Going-Out Male Uniform: button-down shirt, neatly ironed and untucked (wild for the weekend!), Dockers in all shades of khaki, and casual leather shoes while reeking of cologne.
Once the heard of drunk men walked by, there stood the drunk girls.  Normally the Boston Going-Out Female Uniform consists of heavy amounts of eyeliner, long ruler-straight hair, black pants with a bright colored shirt with lots of cleavage showing.  These girls varied from the theme:  they were wearing those skirts that's pleated and light so it looks like a good breeze could blow it up, a la Marylin Monroe.  They had on belly-bearing shirts and very skinny heeled shoes. 
Christine and I, in jeans and sweatshirts appropriate for watching a movie outdoors, looked on in amazement.  Maybe it's just me, but should we not be dressing like whores, ladies?  Unless, as Christine suggested, you're going to a Tarts and Vicors party or it's Halloween, you should not show so much skin at once.   I'm sure these girls got lots of attention, and they were in good shape.  But there's got to be something unsettling about a girl who is so willing to show you her ass before you even know her name.  Am I right, men?
For some reason, the trains were all crowded.  We got on the C line and smooshed in with some of our new best friends.  Near me was an old couple who were desperately discussing how they'd ever manage to get off the train with all the crowds.  In the seats was one of those couples that consist of two very affectionate ugly people, so their making out allows you to hope that maybe you can find someone of a similar caliber to you and find them dead sexy, but also makes you (me) uncomfortable because ugly people are getting more action.  Maybe I'd best buy one of those ass-showin' skirts.
Once the crowd thinned out, a Jamaican woman got on the train.  She was talking on her cell phone, but she was using it like a walkie-talkie.  She'd listen to the person on the other end, then pull the phone away from her ear and put her lips to the mouthpiece and talk.  It was fascinating to watch her so nimbly move the phone around her head.  Then I heard a phone ring, and she takes out another phone and starts talking on that one.  I started wondering why someone would need two cell phones.  The only thing I could think of is that she's one of those Miss Cleo phone psychics and she was on-duty.  It would be quite disconcerting to pay $.99 a minute to hear your future and you hear the psychic's destination is Cleveland Circle.
I am now in my own little corner of the universe, where the skirts cover the ass, the cell phones number only one, and the number of freaks is far lower than in the outside world of late-night commuting.