Fred Florid

"People, people, people! Just listen a minute!" is what the young man said. He was about five-foot-eight, and his uniform hung on him, dark blue like a sheet you use for drapes when they're out being dry-cleaned. Somewhere in there were shoulders. He looked about eighteen and had bad hair.
            "I make announcements and take tickets. I don't drive the train. I don't own the train. I have a wife and two kids. She got laid off eight months ago. Our rent is past due."

            He paused and took a breath.
            "There's a Coke machine over there and a snack bar and a Starbucks down the street. Someone will be back in an hour to update you. Have a nice day."
            With that, the automatic chain-link gate slid closed and the long queue of unhappy, mumbling passengers dispersed.
            Except for Fred Florid. There's always a Fred Florid in situations like this. The scheduling snafu was directed directly at him. Always is.

            He hammered on the gray fencing. "Wait up, young man!"
            The boy didn't look back.
            Young man, I'm talking to you!"

            A door opened, the boy went through it, and it closed with a loud click.
            A ribbon of profanity streamed out of Fred's mouth like ticker tape. Heads turned. A mother covered her child's ears. Pigeons flew into the rafters of the ancient Central Valley railway station. Fred's collar was loose; his mustard yellow tie was undone. Despite the hot midsummer day, he had on a gray suit and drops of sweat trickled down his neck. His face was the color of a beefsteak tomato. Would he blow like Vesuvius? Would he shut up?