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His first question was answered with rapid shake of her head, not words. No, I don't usually give rides to strangers, but you're old and I think I could kill you if I wanted to, or at least knock you down with a well-placed kick to the scrotum. Well said! Or shaken, at least. Whatever. She looped a messy lock of black behind her ear, slipping her hand into Sid's own outstretched hand.

"I'm Andy," she said, vigorously shaking Sid's hand , "or Andy Doyle, in case I decide I'm batshit crazy and wanna kill a mean old dude like yourself. I like cats and Newports and lemonade, but spicy food can blow me. Um. I wanna be rich and die old'n happy'n all that good s**t. And I like ice cream." Way to sound like a weirdo, Doyle. "And macaw parrots, whatever they're called. The, uh...the parrots who're red and blue and yellow and them big a** beaks. Yeah, those're cool."

She dropped her hand, only to tug nervously at her ear lobe. "Anyways, you wanna ride or what? One time offer, free of charge, unless somehow I get carjacked and someone has to be taken as a hostage, and in that case it's gonna be you." She grinned, turning her back to Sid to unlock the door. "I'm young'n beautiful in America, man, I've got s**t to live for."

Wrestling with the door, Andy kept her attention on Sid while one hand pulled and yanked and tugged on the stubborn, rusted door handle. Stupid piece of s**t, it was a miracle the death trap didn't just explode and finally kill her while waiting at a red light. God worked in mysterious ways, huh?

Andrea stifled a shrill cry of victory when she finally managed to wrench the door open. "In your ******** face," she whispered, then, louder and actually audible, "who moves faster?" She snorted and leaned forward into the car, unlocking the passenger's door. The back of her shirt was pulled up in the process, exposing the small of her back: pale skin, peppered with dark tan freckles.

A dirty old man's dream, perhaps, and a dirty old man's dream that would last for less than two seconds. Andy was already back out of the car, straightening her shirt and humming to herself. "Gonna get in or stand there and probably end up gettin shot?" The young woman grinned and quickly pulled herself into the driver's seat, where she would simultaneously slam the door and start the ignition. Impatient, much?

Andy idly tongued a small hole in one of her teeth, a hole brought on by a moment of stupidity when the zipper to her jeans was caught, and the only apparent way to get it free was to bite it. Really dumb idea in the end, but the spot was hardly noticeable. Hopefully.

She pulled out of the parking lot, mentally flipping the diner the bird, and coughed into her arm while Sid questioned her sanity. A sneaky little smile spread her lips, and she cackled. "Maybe!" she squeaked, one hand on the wheel while the other rolled down the window. Primitive window-rollers, very chic. Or old. Depended on how you looked at it. With the window half closed (or opened!), Andy would finger another cigarette out of the box in the pockets of the apron she was still wearing. "Wretched thing, dude. One day I'm gonna ******** quit that job. I been there for nearly five years, still workin off tips, still burnin my hands, still gettin my a** pinched every ******** day. One day...gonna burn that b***h to the ground. Wouldja help?"

A book of matches lay on the dashboard, jittering with each high-speed turn Andy would take. It wasn't that Andy was a bad driver, she was just reckless, and she hated going slow. The speed of the car, hurtling now down Hermitage Avenue, was close to 50 in a 20 MPH street. In one quick swipe, the book of matches were gone, finding their new home the palm of Andy's free hand, the one that had opened the window only a few moments before. She would move her knees to steer the car, ripping a match out of the soft cardboard and striking its flame. The small spark almost blew out, high winds from an open window do that alot, but it caught the head of the cigarette, and soon the sweet, acidic smell of nicotine was drifting through the car.

Andy perked a bit when Sid's first response was, indeed, drowned out by the shrieking winds. Moment-long bits of conversation going on through the open window sailed past the two in the speeding Buick, but Andy hardly paid them any mind.

--"so I said"--
--"gonna try'n sh"--
--"killed dat b***h ******** jerk"--

Instead, at Sid's request for a bus station, Andy spun the wheel like a pro, the cigarette now clamped firmly in her mouth to keep from flying off into the evening. "I don't know if we got a bus station that leaves Trenton," she stated, "but I know the train station got a train that goes all over Jersey. Into New York City. I think it goes to Pennslyvania, too, but I'm not sure." She pushed harder on the gass pedal, accelerating, and nearly crashed nose first into a car pulling out of a driveway. The unknown almost-victim stopped just in time, and while Andy sped away, the driver got out of their car, shaking their fist and shrieking, furious.

Andy stiffled a giggle, obviously enjoying herself. Scaring people was fun, especially with near-death experiences! She whistled to herself while they drove on, and within five minutes, the train station was coming into view. People were filing in and out of the tiny station, wheeling luggage, carrying backpacks. One man, apparently homeless, was standing near the double doors, humming and talking to himself.

Andrea pulled up in front of the station, cheating a few people out of their spots. One man barked, "Hey!" and Andy promptly stuck her tongue out at him. Very mature.

She smiled, jerking her head towards the small building to Sid's right. "Welp, here you are! You got some money? Need some? Ticket's're like twenty bucks, but if you don't got it, I can spring for ya. Just promise to pay me back next time we meet, yeah?" It was a wonder, really, why Andy was being so nice to this poor old man. Maybe it was because he was amusing, or maybe it was something deeper. Something that, for Andy, made Sid a father figure to her, and all of this in less than an hour.

Andy cocked a brow when the ripping and tearing began, and when Sid held up a handful of cash money wrapped in tape speckled with gray hairs, it took Andy a hell of a lot of self-restraint to not giggle like a fool. Instead, she snorted, wiping her hand across her eyes. "You shoulda taped it to your balls instead," she assured, "better comedic value." Indeed.

She contemplated just driving off and leaving Sid to handle his business at the train station by himself, but then again, that wasn't very friendly. Andy wasn't always very friendly in the first place, but it seemed that if she ditched him, Sid would probably end up getting stabbed, just for looking like he did. What a cruel world, eh? Andy heaved a sigh, poked her head out the rolled down window, scanning the small parking lot for a space.

"Okay," she agreed, nodding, "lemme find a spot...somewhere...and I'll come back." And she pulled away, beeping the horn when someone tried to cut her off. A few minutes later, Andy returned, both the apron and cigarette gone. Her thumbs were hooked into the loops of her jeans, and her glasses were dangerously close to falling off the edge of her nose. Idly, she pushed them back up, shuffling up next to Sid in the process.

"Ready to go~?"

Andy closely followed Sid inside, pushing past throngs of people, elbowing her way to get themselves through. Had to be rude, or people would walk all over you, Andy concluded. And if it was one thing Andy Doyle hated, it was being pushed around. Or clowns. Andy hated clowns, too. ******** scary.

When the two were finally inside the station, feet (hopefully) planeted on the scuffed, dirty marble floors, Andy would peak her eyebrows again, Sid's suggestion finally registering. "I don't wanna be waitin tables for the rest of my life," Andy bitterly mentioned, looping her arm into the older man's bicep, "but I ain't good at much else. I kinda like to read, but, um...well, what's that gonna get me? Nuttin." She shrugged and led Sid through the maze of velvet ropes and pushy, annoyed people. The maze abruptly ended at a big glass window, where an impatient woman in a red vest sat behind, checking out her nails.

Andy unlocked her arm from Sid to inch him closer to the window. "What kinda ticket ya gonna buy?" The real question Andy wanted to ask was "one way?", but the young woman was a bit too proud to ask such a thing. She liked Sid, liked his company, thought he was funny, but when her pride got in the way, things needed or wanted to be said just...weren't.

Andy would only offer a shrug as a response, nonchalant. Her first answer would probably have been a "whatever, man", had she been sixteen and not twenty-two; her second, however, better in that she registered what Sid was saying, storing it away for future use, and responding in the way she thought most appropriate: the rise and fall of her shoulders, the tiny little half-smile playing in the corner of her mouth, and her gaze, magnified slightly by her glasses, but on the floor, not on Sid.

She fell silent, if only for a second, then took Sid's hand and lead him to a long, long bench, one that stretched from the middle of the train station to the back, double-doors leading to the outside and a series of small parking lots. The bench was broken only once in its glossy wooden journey: two more doors, one marked TRACK 1 and the other marked TRACK 2; obviously, these were the doors that led to the trains and their appropriate tracks. Andy sucked on her teeth while she took a seat on the bench, patting the spot next to her in a friendly manner.

"D'ya like the beach, Mister Eisley?" she suddenly inquired, staring up (or at, if he chose to sit next to her) the older man. Her lips were pouted just slightly, waiting for his rebuttle. But then she hastily added: "I hate seagulls. They're always cawin and stealin your food for picnics on the beach. Know what'm sayin?"