Bus Mafia

There are three of them lounging at the back of the bus - very young, olive-skinned men, no more than 20 years old.

I first notice them when I take my seat, as one of them is so relaxed he has his arm hung over the back of my bench. He reluctantly pulls it back when he determines that I won't tolerate it there.

I quietly observe their interaction for a few moments. They are loud, boisterous, and somewhat annoying. One of them, obviously the "leader" of the group, is literally lounging across a four-person bench, reclining on his backpack, arm propping up his head, like an ancient Caesar. He is clean shaven, except for an attempt at a moustache. At first glance it looks more like a smudge, but with closer examination I can see distinct individual hairs. About eight of them.

They're chattering away. For a moment I think it's French, but their inflection is far too violent. I conclude that it's Italian.

Eight-Hair is the funny one, judging from how the other two laugh at everything he says. I suspect it's vulgar humour and am glad I don't know Italian. Arm-slinger always laughs the hardest. The other one tries to inject his own funny comments from time to time, but elicits no more than polite spurts of chuckles from Eight-Hair and Arm-Slinger. I wonder how these three developed their friendship. Perhaps they're brothers; they look similar enough.

There's my stop. As soon as I get up, Arm-Slinger slings his arm over my seat again.