Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the Vicodin, or maybe it was a combination of both but downtown was gorgeous one night after a long shift at work. The people were smiling, moving around as if someone had hit the mute button, the lights were dazzling and twinkled in time with my music. I think the music was the best part. It perfectly drowned out the obnoxious sounds of the bus. It was just me, the lights and the quiet voice of Damien Rice.
The bliss of downtown even distracted me from the throbbing pain in my broken finger. I had hurt it at work a few days ago when the security window for the To-Go area fell on my hand, breaking my little finger and causing me to get 5 stitches. I drifted in and out of day dreams of being a real superhero and getting a call from my agent (that I didn't have) saying that I needed to pack right away for my national book tour. Once and a while, I'd check the scrolling marquee to see if I was nearing my stop and sometime after imagining myself winking at a hot guy waiting in line for me to sign his book, I looked up and saw this scrolling by: "**\££?"
"What the fuck. Where the hell am I?" I thought to myself. I'd certainly missed my stop and was now hurling into the mysterious abyss where buses go after people are done riding them. I half expected to grow an extra eye that was completely useless, located in my arm pit. Because, you know, that's what happens when you find yourself hurling into mysterious abysses.
I frantically started moving about in my seat, trying to squint hard enough to read the street signs whizzing past me. Shit like this always happens to me . I'm enjoying a plesant time ignoring the world and I miss my stop and end up riding into an oblivion. I did my best to tell myself not to panic but it had already set in. My heart was racing, as was my mind trying to figure out where I was, wishing that I had taken the time to learn the layout of the city I've lived in since I was 6 years old. It was a good fifteen minutes of sweaty panic before I thought to pause my music and try to listen to the gravely voice that announced the stops. The first announcement sounded something line "Watermelon and Led Go." I took this to mean that we were in the farmer's market district of the city which also meant that I was well past my stop. I mean, where else would they have street names like "Watermelon?" The next one cane out sounding like "Watermelon and Congruence." Well, at least I knew I was on Watermelon. I squinted harder at the street signs and finally figured out that I was at Washington and Commerce. That made a lot more sense.
It also meant that it would be another 45 minutes before I reached my stop. With a sigh of relief, I drifted bak into my day dreams which just so happened to be about watermelons living on Tangerine Avenue and the irony of it all.
February 23, 2011
Buildings of hope and hate
I couldn't focus on my book this morning. I didn't know if it was the music I was listening to or the complicated prose of John Knowles but for whatever reason, my mind was somewhere else. I resolved to staring out the window, and as we approached downtown, I was struck by the symmetry of it all. All of the buildings seemed to be exactly the same size and laid in a perfect, quiet grid. Each of the tiny windows appeared to be the same size and filled with the same 5'6" people. Everything was the same in every possible way. I also couldn't decide if the sight of all of these buildings was incredibly sad or full of beautiful hope. Am I ever meant to work in offices like those? Or will I be in part time jobs for the rest of my life? At 23 I'm in an interesting position. I'm experienced enough to land a job as a receptionist or maybe even a project manager with a little experience. But I don't have a degree, preventing me from jobs such as...well, pretty much anything. And as much as I hate my job at the restaurant, I'm not really ready to go back to school. For some reason, I'm jaded and still resent school for something it never did.
I feel like I dwell on these buildings a lot. On what they represent to me, to others. How they affect my everyday of my life. But in reality, they're just buildings. Just places for people to conduct business. Steel, glass and nothing else. But I suppose in the Earth that I've concocted in my head, these places hold more than men, women and paper. They hold my hopes, my promise, my potential. Some days I revere them for that and others I despise them.
It's an interesting dynamic, if you think about it, despising a building. Despising anything inanimate, really, is quite strange. But I suppose the truth of the situation is that when you despise something that isn't alive, you're really despising yourself and the things you have done that you associate with those things.
I tell everyone that I don't regret my decision to leave school in the slightest. The truth is, I hate the decision most days. No doubt it was the right one to make but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And as easy as it is to say "Just go back then. Reverse the whole situation," it's ten times harder to actually do it. There are just too many unanswered questions and then there's the shame of admitting defeat. I thought I could do this: leave school and really make something of myself. Going back now would be admiring that I've been wrong all this time. I suppose I'm too proud for that.
I feel like I dwell on these buildings a lot. On what they represent to me, to others. How they affect my everyday of my life. But in reality, they're just buildings. Just places for people to conduct business. Steel, glass and nothing else. But I suppose in the Earth that I've concocted in my head, these places hold more than men, women and paper. They hold my hopes, my promise, my potential. Some days I revere them for that and others I despise them.
It's an interesting dynamic, if you think about it, despising a building. Despising anything inanimate, really, is quite strange. But I suppose the truth of the situation is that when you despise something that isn't alive, you're really despising yourself and the things you have done that you associate with those things.
I tell everyone that I don't regret my decision to leave school in the slightest. The truth is, I hate the decision most days. No doubt it was the right one to make but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And as easy as it is to say "Just go back then. Reverse the whole situation," it's ten times harder to actually do it. There are just too many unanswered questions and then there's the shame of admitting defeat. I thought I could do this: leave school and really make something of myself. Going back now would be admiring that I've been wrong all this time. I suppose I'm too proud for that.
Too much coffee leads to plans for the future
On mornings when I drink too much coffee, I'm so jittery that I want to leap out of my skin. And the vibrations and jostling of the bus don't usually help much. I do my best to calm my nerves before work but it never works. I'm just as shaky when I walk in as I am when....I'm.....standing in a paint mixer...what? From there I can tell what kind of day I'm going to have: one from hell. I do my best to distract myself by making plans for the rest of the afternoon.
I reminded myself that I HAD to look for another job today. My mother made me promise that I would job hunt for half an hour each day... That was four days ago and I have yet to send out a single resume. I hate job hunting; it's full of too much rejection. Who in their right mind looks for a job with eager eyes? "yes! I get to be told 100 times that I'm not wanted! Oh let my joyous strains ring out unto the mountain tops!" ridiculous. Everyone hates that.
I've decided that looking for jobs is particularly hardest for the youngest of the family. In my years of haphazardly reading about birth order and how it affects the mental development of children, I've discovered that the youngest child spends a lot of time begging for attention and acceptance. So naturally, we do not deal with rejection well. It sends us, well me at least, into a dizzying spiral back to our childhood when our older siblings wouldn't let us join in their reindeer games. Instead of hearing, "I'm sorry, sir, you're just not right for this job." I hear, "ha ha ha! You can't play with us!!!" and I want to die.
One of the hardest lessons I've ever learned in my life was that not everyone wants to be my friend. And looking back, I still wonder if I ever really learned that lesson. I can accept that I can't make everyone like me but I feel like I should at least make everyone tolerate me, right? That should be a power that I possess, shouldn't it? And with risk to tooting my own horn, I AM particularly good at making friends. I just know how to make people like me; I've had a lot of practice. Anyway, so when I go on job interviews or call in for a phone interview, I'm nearly certain that I'll be offered the job. It's just getting to that interview that causes all the trouble. In person, I'm bright, friendly, witty, and eager to please. Essentially, I'm a puppy. But on paper I'm a college drop out with sparse work experience and a lot of fluff words. It's practically impossible for me to come across half as well on paper. And trust me, I've sent my resume and cover letter to loads of people trying to get myself to come off better. But it never works. I'm shit on paper and a fucking gold mine in person.
I reminded myself that I HAD to look for another job today. My mother made me promise that I would job hunt for half an hour each day... That was four days ago and I have yet to send out a single resume. I hate job hunting; it's full of too much rejection. Who in their right mind looks for a job with eager eyes? "yes! I get to be told 100 times that I'm not wanted! Oh let my joyous strains ring out unto the mountain tops!" ridiculous. Everyone hates that.
I've decided that looking for jobs is particularly hardest for the youngest of the family. In my years of haphazardly reading about birth order and how it affects the mental development of children, I've discovered that the youngest child spends a lot of time begging for attention and acceptance. So naturally, we do not deal with rejection well. It sends us, well me at least, into a dizzying spiral back to our childhood when our older siblings wouldn't let us join in their reindeer games. Instead of hearing, "I'm sorry, sir, you're just not right for this job." I hear, "ha ha ha! You can't play with us!!!" and I want to die.
One of the hardest lessons I've ever learned in my life was that not everyone wants to be my friend. And looking back, I still wonder if I ever really learned that lesson. I can accept that I can't make everyone like me but I feel like I should at least make everyone tolerate me, right? That should be a power that I possess, shouldn't it? And with risk to tooting my own horn, I AM particularly good at making friends. I just know how to make people like me; I've had a lot of practice. Anyway, so when I go on job interviews or call in for a phone interview, I'm nearly certain that I'll be offered the job. It's just getting to that interview that causes all the trouble. In person, I'm bright, friendly, witty, and eager to please. Essentially, I'm a puppy. But on paper I'm a college drop out with sparse work experience and a lot of fluff words. It's practically impossible for me to come across half as well on paper. And trust me, I've sent my resume and cover letter to loads of people trying to get myself to come off better. But it never works. I'm shit on paper and a fucking gold mine in person.
February 14, 2011
Frozen Downtown
My stop downtown on my way to work is different than my stop on my way home and I've decided it's where warmth goes to die. I stand on the corner of Smith and Polk, doing my best to cover myself from the winds that focus so intently between the buildings. The giant, glass towers peer over me and I can almost hear then laughing at my quivering frame. Sometimes I imagine that I work in one of those buildings. I'm in my nerdy suit with my bag full of files and my lunch slung over my shoulder. I swipe my security card to pass the front desk and take the elevator to the 12th floor. I casually greet the early comers to the office and switch on the coffee pot. Booting up my computer, I situate myself comfortably in my chair, getting ready for a day of answering the phone, picking up lunch, directing colleagues and clients to the correct offices. I love it. My boss can't function properly without me and he shows this by his generous bonus at Christmas and the nice pen he buys me for Secretary's day (which he feels is important to recognize even though the others in my office could care less.)
But it's just a fantasy. And before long, the 82 to Westheimer arrives to take me to my real job of shoveling food into Styrofoam boxes for uppity business men and women that don't tip.
But it's just a fantasy. And before long, the 82 to Westheimer arrives to take me to my real job of shoveling food into Styrofoam boxes for uppity business men and women that don't tip.
Under the bus
Sometimes the best things are stored under bus seats. There's the usual trash: discarded ketchup packets, ripped up receipts, a piece of gum adhered to the tacky blue fabric. Pretty standard stuff. But every once and a while, you'll come across something really good. Once, I found an entire camping tent. A whole tent just hanging out beneath my seat. It made me wonder what could be in the lost and found box at the main office of the bus system. Hell, there's probably a whole room of stuff. I imagine it to be full of things like strollers, rings, purses, cell phones, and umbrellas. Lord, I'm sure they have a while ROOM full of umbrellas. Black ones, ones with patterns, child sized ones, any umbrella you could think of, I'm sure they had it. I bet they could furnish enough umbrellas to provide props for Singing in the Rain 18 times.
On the bus one Thursday, I sat behind two war veterans talking about when they were enlisted and why Uncle Sam owed them 10 times the amount they were given. I did my best not to listen. Even though my brother is in the army, I just can't bring myself to support anything to do with warfare. I hate everything about it: the violence, the guns, the hatred.
While I was listening to the two men talk I realized two things: 1) If you put your headphones on but down turn on the music, no one realizes you're listening to them. And 2) anyone that openly talks to strangers on public transportation are liars. The man directly in front of me was telling the other about how he did most of his acid trips in Vietnam and that's the only way he made it through. But after the war, he was at St. Thomas University with a press pass because he worked for a local newspaper and that's where he met Jimmy Hendrix. It but it wasn't until after he was done telling a story of how he used to get high with "Jim" all the time, that he mentioned that he attended St. Thomas an thats where he really got his press pass, working for the campus newspaper. The other man jut smiled and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, I was questioning if he even was in the military at all. Then he stepped on my foot and I decided he had a death wish...all liars have a death wish, don't they?
On the bus one Thursday, I sat behind two war veterans talking about when they were enlisted and why Uncle Sam owed them 10 times the amount they were given. I did my best not to listen. Even though my brother is in the army, I just can't bring myself to support anything to do with warfare. I hate everything about it: the violence, the guns, the hatred.
While I was listening to the two men talk I realized two things: 1) If you put your headphones on but down turn on the music, no one realizes you're listening to them. And 2) anyone that openly talks to strangers on public transportation are liars. The man directly in front of me was telling the other about how he did most of his acid trips in Vietnam and that's the only way he made it through. But after the war, he was at St. Thomas University with a press pass because he worked for a local newspaper and that's where he met Jimmy Hendrix. It but it wasn't until after he was done telling a story of how he used to get high with "Jim" all the time, that he mentioned that he attended St. Thomas an thats where he really got his press pass, working for the campus newspaper. The other man jut smiled and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, I was questioning if he even was in the military at all. Then he stepped on my foot and I decided he had a death wish...all liars have a death wish, don't they?
My Best Friend, part 1
There are a lot of things to tell about my best friend, S. She's....a character. And I honestly mean that in the best way possible. There's not a single thing about her that I want to change. And she might hate me for telling these stories about her but they're the things that make me love her 100 times over.
One of the most notable things about S, is sometimes she has night terrors. And I don't mean the "wakes up, startled and a little freaked out" kind of terrors. I mean the "wakes up screaming bloody murder, neighbor's call the cops" kind of way. I have yet to experience this but it's always in the back of my mind as I'm slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Will tonight be the night that I wake up to her terrified screaming? What will I do? Call the cops? Ignore her? Shake her until she wakes up?"
I often find myself thinking about her, considering her feelings and life when I make decisions for myself. Not only with big ideas like "should I finish my degree?" or "should I move out of my parents house?" but with the little things too. Last Valentine's day, she bought me a box of chocolates. It was a really sweet gesture; she knows I like candy and wanted to get me something for the holiday. But as I sat on my bed and opened the box, I read the top and considered "which ones will she like best?" They were my chocolates! She gave them to me! I didn't have to share them but I knew that I would end up doing so anyway. And furthermore, instead of eating the ones that sounded best to me, I was willing to sacrifice them on the chance that she might want them. It seemed silly but I did it anyway.
I guess that's just what 5 years of friendship does to a person.
One of the most notable things about S, is sometimes she has night terrors. And I don't mean the "wakes up, startled and a little freaked out" kind of terrors. I mean the "wakes up screaming bloody murder, neighbor's call the cops" kind of way. I have yet to experience this but it's always in the back of my mind as I'm slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Will tonight be the night that I wake up to her terrified screaming? What will I do? Call the cops? Ignore her? Shake her until she wakes up?"
I often find myself thinking about her, considering her feelings and life when I make decisions for myself. Not only with big ideas like "should I finish my degree?" or "should I move out of my parents house?" but with the little things too. Last Valentine's day, she bought me a box of chocolates. It was a really sweet gesture; she knows I like candy and wanted to get me something for the holiday. But as I sat on my bed and opened the box, I read the top and considered "which ones will she like best?" They were my chocolates! She gave them to me! I didn't have to share them but I knew that I would end up doing so anyway. And furthermore, instead of eating the ones that sounded best to me, I was willing to sacrifice them on the chance that she might want them. It seemed silly but I did it anyway.
I guess that's just what 5 years of friendship does to a person.
February 9, 2011
The Worst
Today was absolutely the worst day of my working career. At 12:30, just as our lunch rush was coming in, every single computer in the restaurant freezes. Can't take orders, can't run credit cards. Nothing. We did the best we could.
For a solid 3 hours, I had a line of customers, each yelling at me for one reason or another. My boss was frustrated with the entire situation and was making comments like "I'm shutting down To-Go (my section) forever. I can't deal with this crap." and "I'm so tired of To-Go..." How was I supposed to take that? I was certain she was going to fire me.
After being yelled at by a line of customers, To-Go was shut down. I did my best to clean up and organize everything, closed as many checks as I could (we ended up giving away a lot of free food) and went to face the music. My hands shook and my eyes couldn't lift themselves above the floor. I braced myself for the inevitable words: "You're fired."
My boss told me, in as calm a manner that she could, that she was too frustrated to speak to me today and that we'll have to discuss this tomorrow. Great. Now I get to go home and fester on my imminent doom all night long. I couldn't take it, I just started to cry. I did my best to tell her that I was sorry and that I did the best I could. I told her that I understood that she didn't really want to talk about it right now but I'm just so afraid that she was going to fire me, I couldn't take it. So I stood there and sobbed.
My boss took me by the shoulders and explained that she wasn't going to fire me. I took a deep breath. But, she went on, we were still going to have a talk tomorrow.
On my way home from work, I stood at the bus stop in a daze. If I wasn't crying, I was staring down the street, adding up the money left in my checking account, savings account, and the cash in my wallet (a whomping $89.42 by the way.) I reached into my pocket for my phone to call my mother and tell her that I give up and I'm moving back home with her where money doesn't exist for me and I just live on the couch and wither away but inside my pocket, I pull out $4.92....all the tip money I made that day. To make matters worse, I still needed 8 cents to make it home...
Luckily, I had hidden an extra $5 in my bag for just such an occasion. When my bus came, I paid the fair and picked a seat. My iPod was probably too loud and I'm certain that everyone on the bus could tell I had just spent the last half hour sobbing but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was disappear. I was so distracted that I got off my bus a good 4 blocks early. When I realized it, the bus had pulled away; I looked down the street and said "Well, I might as well walk. What else could go wrong?"
I didn't even notice the walk, to be honest. My mind was delightfully blank and before I knew it, I was standing at my stop in the middle of downtown, watching the corner for the bus. A woman with wild, kinky black hair waved a caramel colored hand in front of my face, forcing my mind to focus.
"Excuse me, do you have a dollar?" she says, plastering a fake, but hopeful smile.
I reached into my bag where I kept my money and pulled out $2. I flip back one of the bills and put it back in my bag and hand her the dollar.
"God bless you. Thank you " she says and walks away.
The only thing I can focus on is....why didn't I give her both dollars?
For a solid 3 hours, I had a line of customers, each yelling at me for one reason or another. My boss was frustrated with the entire situation and was making comments like "I'm shutting down To-Go (my section) forever. I can't deal with this crap." and "I'm so tired of To-Go..." How was I supposed to take that? I was certain she was going to fire me.
After being yelled at by a line of customers, To-Go was shut down. I did my best to clean up and organize everything, closed as many checks as I could (we ended up giving away a lot of free food) and went to face the music. My hands shook and my eyes couldn't lift themselves above the floor. I braced myself for the inevitable words: "You're fired."
My boss told me, in as calm a manner that she could, that she was too frustrated to speak to me today and that we'll have to discuss this tomorrow. Great. Now I get to go home and fester on my imminent doom all night long. I couldn't take it, I just started to cry. I did my best to tell her that I was sorry and that I did the best I could. I told her that I understood that she didn't really want to talk about it right now but I'm just so afraid that she was going to fire me, I couldn't take it. So I stood there and sobbed.
My boss took me by the shoulders and explained that she wasn't going to fire me. I took a deep breath. But, she went on, we were still going to have a talk tomorrow.
On my way home from work, I stood at the bus stop in a daze. If I wasn't crying, I was staring down the street, adding up the money left in my checking account, savings account, and the cash in my wallet (a whomping $89.42 by the way.) I reached into my pocket for my phone to call my mother and tell her that I give up and I'm moving back home with her where money doesn't exist for me and I just live on the couch and wither away but inside my pocket, I pull out $4.92....all the tip money I made that day. To make matters worse, I still needed 8 cents to make it home...
Luckily, I had hidden an extra $5 in my bag for just such an occasion. When my bus came, I paid the fair and picked a seat. My iPod was probably too loud and I'm certain that everyone on the bus could tell I had just spent the last half hour sobbing but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was disappear. I was so distracted that I got off my bus a good 4 blocks early. When I realized it, the bus had pulled away; I looked down the street and said "Well, I might as well walk. What else could go wrong?"
I didn't even notice the walk, to be honest. My mind was delightfully blank and before I knew it, I was standing at my stop in the middle of downtown, watching the corner for the bus. A woman with wild, kinky black hair waved a caramel colored hand in front of my face, forcing my mind to focus.
"Excuse me, do you have a dollar?" she says, plastering a fake, but hopeful smile.
I reached into my bag where I kept my money and pulled out $2. I flip back one of the bills and put it back in my bag and hand her the dollar.
"God bless you. Thank you " she says and walks away.
The only thing I can focus on is....why didn't I give her both dollars?
February 3, 2011
Riding the Bus and other things
I like to keep my bus stop clean. I'll spend a good ten to twenty minutes picking up trash and pushing dead leaves and sticks into the sewer drain nearby with my foot. I just like having a clean place to exist while I wait for my bus. One Monday, I had to clean up an entire newspaper left out in the rain. It took me nearly 30 minutes to pick up all the little ads and inserts they're always stick in the Sunday paper and by the time I was finished, I had to run from the trashcan a block away to catch my bus on time.
Sometimes I do such a good job of cleaning my stop, the next day there isn't anything to clean up, so I just sit quietly on my bench and read a book that I've checked out of the library 7 blocks down from my apartment. It's nice, sitting and reading quietly at my stop. It reminds me of when I was in school and I only had a handful of friends on account of the fact that I constantly had my head stuck in a book. For most of my life, I lived in a literary world. My friends were characters and my God was the omnipotent voice that narrated all of the stories. I loved it. Instead of growing up in Houston, Texas, I spent the first ten years of my life living with The Who's in Whoville. My years in middle school were spent solving crimes with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I fell in love with a girl named Catherine and sat back and watched as she fought with her brother and fell in love with a boy named Heathcliff. In high school, I traveled around the world in 80 days, dove 20,000 leagues under the sea, went whale hunting, lost my sanity on a river in the Amazon, and even traveled with a midget to a volcano to save the world from an evil wizard.
I stopped living my fictional life and started living in reality when I entered college. I simply didn't have time to read. I was spending all of my time drinking, smoking pot and not going to class. It was awesome. I forgot all about my friends Ana Karenina and Mr. Darcy. Sometimes, I'll glance over their hardcover homes and remember all the adventures we've had but to visit them now seems futile and silly. They're mystery is gone. I am like the god I created in my head, I already know what happens to them in the end.
Now I browse the shelves of the library in search of new friends. In the two weeks that I've returned to my literature world, I've grown up in North Carolina with David Sedaris, pet the mice by the river with Lennie and George, and sobbed over Matthew Shepherd's mangled, murdered body.
Yep, the life I live at my bus stop is a simple one. It's not until I board the bus when things get complicated and interesting.
Today as I sat staring at a business man jog across the intersection in his expensive suit and black leather briefcase, a man from the back of the bus shouts, "Ma'am!....Sir, sorry. There's someone running for the bus." He wanted the bus driver to stop and wait for them. I wanted him to keep going. I was already running late for work and didn't feel like being even more late because someone else couldn't bother to show up at their stop on time. The driver stopped anyway and on walked the most monochromatic man I've ever seen in my life. He wore dirty tennis shoes that probably were white in the store but after months of running for nearly missed buses, have turned a dingy gray. His blue jeans were equally faded to the point of turning a dull blueish gray. And of course, his shirt was striped with two shades of gray. In an almost comedic fashion though, his hair was dyed a brilliant shade of highlighter yellow but I could see his roots growing in, dusty, gray roots.
Sometimes I wonder if people own mirrors. He seemed like a pleasant man, happy with his life and his choices. But I couldn't help but giggle slightly, picturing him standing in front of his mirror, taking in his entire outfit and saying, "Yep, this looks good." To be fair, he wasn't the worst dressed man on the bus. An elderly woman in a jacket, hat and t-shirt, all three different shades of pink, and bright purple, nylon pants got on shortly after him. Another man, rolling back and forth in his seat as he slept, was dressed in a white business shirt with a mustard stain on the collar and drool was dripping into his pocket protector. Attractive. I really shouldn't judge these people. I'm no fashionista either. I wore the same pair of jeans and black polo everyday. There were no doubt blotches of food and thin white lines of deodorant on the shirt. And I'm certain there was a quarter sized white spot on the back pocket of my jeans where a pen had exploded and leaked ink all over my wallet, leaving me forced to throw out the wallet and try to bleach the ink out.
Riding the bus is kind of like living in a cartoon. People don't seem to be real, acting and dressing like people you'd only imagine to appear in Peanuts or Foxtrot. Every once and a while, an attractive hipster or sexy businessman will board the 50 to Downtown and I'll spend the entire ride either staring at them over my book or glancing at them every five seconds in hopes that they'd look back at me and we'd both smile, introduce ourselves and spend the next 30 years together. Of course, more often than not, they'd either catch me staring and move to the back of the bus or wouldn't even take notice of me and quietly exit the bus at their stop and continue on with their happy, sexy lives.
The people, while entertaining, can also be the most annoying. If I've learned anything since I started using public transportation, it's the 6 Rules of Riding the Bus:
1) Always have exact change. Waiting for someone who's waiting to receive change from the machine is akin to waiting for the grass to grow or the paint to dry.
Once, after thoroughly cleaning my stop, I stood behind a woman that appeared to be in her mid-thirties, waiting to board the bus. When it was her turn to pay the $1.25 it cost to ride, she proceeded to take out a sandwich sized plastic baggie of nickels...the lowest form of currency the machine would accept. And instead of having it all counted out already, as the rest of us did, she needed to count out all 25 nickels. And occasionally, she'd pull out a euro and say to herself, "That's not a nickel! I must have put it in here by mistake. I just got back from England, you know." I wanted to scream at her, "No one cares, lady! Just pay the fucking fair!" But, because of rule number 5, I was silent. Which leads me to rule #2.
2) Don't ask too many questions. You may ask the driver one question before people start looking at you like you're a complete idiot, so you better make it good. While riding the bus, I almost always sit near the front. It's the most efficient seat; you get on, sit down as quickly as possible and get off just as fast. And one time, I overheard a man, in a very thick Armenian accent, asking the driver so many questions that the driver was forced to close his doors and drive on, leaving the man to cling for dear life to the pole directly beside the driver seat. I was amazed as his tenacity, gripping the pole and continuing his line of questions as if it would save not only his own life but the lives of the other 15 people on the bus.
3) A] If you're traveling alone, bring something to distract yourself, a book, a sandwich, something. If you forgot your distraction, sit by the window and watch for any exciting car crashes that might have occurred during morning rush-hour. If there isn't a widow seat, either stand and stare off into space or sit in an aisle seat and count the fibers in your seat. Do anything but stare openly at people. Through years of peering over books and eavesdropping on my brothers' drinking and smoking in their bedrooms, I've become good at watching people without them knowing about it; only attempt if you think you can get away with it without getting shot (because let's face it, that happens on buses.)
As I rode on my afternoon commute home once, a man got on and sat beside me, it wasn't the big if a deal, the bus was full and I was just getting to the good part in my book. But all of the sudden I felt a pair of eyes on me the way someone feels after reading a crime novel about a peeping-tom. I glance over at the man and his right eye appeared to be staring peacefully out the window but his left eye was situated directly on me. I was startled at first, not quite expecting the man to be staring both at me and the business buildings of downtown at the same time. I did my best to go back to my book but every once and a while, my eyes would find themselves checking back on the eye to see if it was still staring at me; it always was. I wanted to stab his lazy-eye out with the pen in my bus-riding bag.
B] If you happen to be traveling with another adult, you may do your best to try to sit together but do not ask someone to move so that you can sit next to your travel partner. That's just rude.
C] If you are traveling with a child, please follow these instructions carefully. Wrap the child tightly using your strongest arm to prevent such things from happening as: running, jumping, skipping, or flailing. With your other hand, place it firmly over their mouth and pinch their nose closed with your first finger and thumb. This will cause them to fall into a delightfully quiet, coma-like state, allowing other passengers to enjoy their ride without sobs, shrieks, or incessant babbling. If you fail to do this and your child insists on making a spectacle, the other passengers will insist on glaring at you with daggers in their eyes and attempt to quiet the child themselves by any means necessary.
After a long weekend losing myself in the thudding lullaby of the local clubs, I was looking forward to catching a short nap on my commute to work. At the stop after I got on was a large, round woman with frizzy hair and an exhausted expression...toting behind her two children, one boy an one girl. The girl wasn't too bad at first, sitting quietly beside her mother, making her two dolls kiss over and over. Then the bus started moving, unhinging a nerve in the girl causing her to wail in terror the entire time she was on board. The woman did nothing. Meanwhile, the boy began wandering around the bus, climbing into empty seats and startling passengers by popping up behind them and making dinosaur noises. After he grew tired of this, he began racing his imaginary friend to either end of the bus. Growing steadily annoyed and after getting my foot stomped on a few times, I politely asked the mother if she could ask her child to sit down and be quiet. The mother scoffed, "Like I can control him." and then I made my decision. As the bus pulled up to a stop, and the boy raced to the back of the bus, I stuck out my foot and tripped him. He proceeded to burst into tears and roll on the floor holding his now bloody nose and I proceeded to exit the bus a full 10 blocks from my stop.
4) Always. Always always always bathe within the 12 hours prior to boarding the bus. If you wear cologne or perfume, limit yourself to 2 spritz's at most. No one wants to sit next to Pigpen from Peanuts nor does anyone want to sit next to a Bath and Body Works medley.
After a double shift at work, I boarded the bus, happy to be headed home. When I got on, I realized there was only one seat remaining next to a stick thin man in a dirty t-shirt and athletic shorts. I had just spent 8 hours standing so I took the seat beside him. I'd rather sit awkwardly next to someone than stand for one more moment. The minute I sat down, I thought, "I should have stood." He smelled like a 12 year old boy who's sweat glands just developed and had yet to discover deodorant. On top of that there was a musky, unidentifyable stench about him. I was doing my best not to vomit all over him and reach for a pole to cling to so I could stand for the remainder of my commute when he swiftly exited the bus, leaving his wreaking aura behind.
5) Never, under any circumstances are you permitted to engage in a conversation with someone. You may exchange poliete nods and maybe a quiet "hello" if you're feeling particularly kind. The only exception for this rule is if you are seated in an aisle seat and someone is beside you and you need to pull the cord for your stop. You may then, in as few words as possible, ask the person next to you to pull the cord for you. But it is preferred for you to merely tap their shoulder and then meekly point to the cord.
My very first day of work at my job, I was seated opposite a man in nice slacks, a white business shirt with a argyle sweater vest over it. He seemed normal enough so I passed him a kind smile. I suppose he took that as an invitation to find a new friend and proceeded to tell me his entire life story. Unfortunately, his stop was the same as mine and so his tale continued well after we disembarked the bus. The next day, I took a different route.
6) The last rule, and this is more of a personal rule than a generally accepted rule: only relinquish your seat for the disabled, elderly, or the attractive. And if someone approahes that you know is about to break any of these rules, spread your things out in the seat next to you and think wide thoughts.
I have but three words for this rule as to explain it's existance: seemingly homeless man.
As much flack that I give to the people riding the bus, nothing is more annoying than the voice that comes on over the PA system announcing the stops. While inteded to be helpful and a very nice courtesey, it's more like listening to a throat cancer patient trying to recite Shakespeare. The street names come put in a garbled, robotic tone with curious pronounciations. Instead of stopping at Washington and Center, we stop at "Wallowshingmom and Centaur." Luckily, the bus has a scrolling marquee, that, if in working order, displays the stop we're approaching. Some days it a series of lines and dots as it was my first day riding the bus. Since I didn't quite know where I was or where I was going, I freaked out only a little. I ended up leaning over to the man next to me and asking, "Do you know morse code?" Unfortunately, he didn't so I was forced to squint and peer out the windshield of the bus to read the street signs as they whizzed past; another perk to sitting near the front.
Today the man behind me smells heavily of weed reminding me of my glorious college days...I wonder if he'll share....
On my days on the bus, I work at a restaurant located on the bottom level of a very large mall near downtown. It isn't too bad; our customers are mall shoppers and businessmen and women that work in the nearby buildings, so the tips were usually sonehwere in the $80 - $100 range by the end of the shift. The restaurant is located in a prime people-watching spot. Right beside the public bathrooms and facing the ice skating rink. You can only imagine what type of people I watch on our slow days. Among my favorites are the people returning from the bathroom. You can always tell who didn't wash their hands. Usually putting their hands in their pockets or trying to busy themselves with small tugs to the hem of their shirts; I stare at then like they had just smeared feces all over themselves. On occasion, someone would catch me staring and instead of immediately looking away, I'd just stare them down and make them as uncomfortable as they had made me by knowing that they didn't wash their hands.
But if I'm being perfectly honest, you can only glare at feces-hands for so long. After a while, I'd turn my attention to my favorite form of entertainment: stroller collisions. Not only were they violent enough to warrent a screaming match between parents but sometimes the kids would go flying and one would end up ontop of the other.
A mother was pushing her screaming brat past the skating rink one lazy Monday afternoon, talking on the phone and paying no attention to anyone in front of her. She nearly took out a teenager, no doubtly skipping school to peroose the mall. And she definitely didn't see the other mother pushing her twin boys in a side-by-side stroller as she window shopped. The crash was amazing. Both strollers toppled over sending the three children sprawling in the aisle. The first mom dropped her phone while the other's purse emptied itself beside the children. Immediately, without care to the well-being of their children, the women began screaming at each other blaming the other for a cracked phone screen or a stepped on lipstick. It was a good 2 minutes before either of the parents bent down to check on their child. The parenting skills exuded by these two sent me reeling. For once in my life, I felt bad for the kids.
I stopped living my fictional life and started living in reality when I entered college. I simply didn't have time to read. I was spending all of my time drinking, smoking pot and not going to class. It was awesome. I forgot all about my friends Ana Karenina and Mr. Darcy. Sometimes, I'll glance over their hardcover homes and remember all the adventures we've had but to visit them now seems futile and silly. They're mystery is gone. I am like the god I created in my head, I already know what happens to them in the end.
Now I browse the shelves of the library in search of new friends. In the two weeks that I've returned to my literature world, I've grown up in North Carolina with David Sedaris, pet the mice by the river with Lennie and George, and sobbed over Matthew Shepherd's mangled, murdered body.
Yep, the life I live at my bus stop is a simple one. It's not until I board the bus when things get complicated and interesting.
Today as I sat staring at a business man jog across the intersection in his expensive suit and black leather briefcase, a man from the back of the bus shouts, "Ma'am!....Sir, sorry. There's someone running for the bus." He wanted the bus driver to stop and wait for them. I wanted him to keep going. I was already running late for work and didn't feel like being even more late because someone else couldn't bother to show up at their stop on time. The driver stopped anyway and on walked the most monochromatic man I've ever seen in my life. He wore dirty tennis shoes that probably were white in the store but after months of running for nearly missed buses, have turned a dingy gray. His blue jeans were equally faded to the point of turning a dull blueish gray. And of course, his shirt was striped with two shades of gray. In an almost comedic fashion though, his hair was dyed a brilliant shade of highlighter yellow but I could see his roots growing in, dusty, gray roots.
Sometimes I wonder if people own mirrors. He seemed like a pleasant man, happy with his life and his choices. But I couldn't help but giggle slightly, picturing him standing in front of his mirror, taking in his entire outfit and saying, "Yep, this looks good." To be fair, he wasn't the worst dressed man on the bus. An elderly woman in a jacket, hat and t-shirt, all three different shades of pink, and bright purple, nylon pants got on shortly after him. Another man, rolling back and forth in his seat as he slept, was dressed in a white business shirt with a mustard stain on the collar and drool was dripping into his pocket protector. Attractive. I really shouldn't judge these people. I'm no fashionista either. I wore the same pair of jeans and black polo everyday. There were no doubt blotches of food and thin white lines of deodorant on the shirt. And I'm certain there was a quarter sized white spot on the back pocket of my jeans where a pen had exploded and leaked ink all over my wallet, leaving me forced to throw out the wallet and try to bleach the ink out.
Riding the bus is kind of like living in a cartoon. People don't seem to be real, acting and dressing like people you'd only imagine to appear in Peanuts or Foxtrot. Every once and a while, an attractive hipster or sexy businessman will board the 50 to Downtown and I'll spend the entire ride either staring at them over my book or glancing at them every five seconds in hopes that they'd look back at me and we'd both smile, introduce ourselves and spend the next 30 years together. Of course, more often than not, they'd either catch me staring and move to the back of the bus or wouldn't even take notice of me and quietly exit the bus at their stop and continue on with their happy, sexy lives.
The people, while entertaining, can also be the most annoying. If I've learned anything since I started using public transportation, it's the 6 Rules of Riding the Bus:
1) Always have exact change. Waiting for someone who's waiting to receive change from the machine is akin to waiting for the grass to grow or the paint to dry.
Once, after thoroughly cleaning my stop, I stood behind a woman that appeared to be in her mid-thirties, waiting to board the bus. When it was her turn to pay the $1.25 it cost to ride, she proceeded to take out a sandwich sized plastic baggie of nickels...the lowest form of currency the machine would accept. And instead of having it all counted out already, as the rest of us did, she needed to count out all 25 nickels. And occasionally, she'd pull out a euro and say to herself, "That's not a nickel! I must have put it in here by mistake. I just got back from England, you know." I wanted to scream at her, "No one cares, lady! Just pay the fucking fair!" But, because of rule number 5, I was silent. Which leads me to rule #2.
2) Don't ask too many questions. You may ask the driver one question before people start looking at you like you're a complete idiot, so you better make it good. While riding the bus, I almost always sit near the front. It's the most efficient seat; you get on, sit down as quickly as possible and get off just as fast. And one time, I overheard a man, in a very thick Armenian accent, asking the driver so many questions that the driver was forced to close his doors and drive on, leaving the man to cling for dear life to the pole directly beside the driver seat. I was amazed as his tenacity, gripping the pole and continuing his line of questions as if it would save not only his own life but the lives of the other 15 people on the bus.
3) A] If you're traveling alone, bring something to distract yourself, a book, a sandwich, something. If you forgot your distraction, sit by the window and watch for any exciting car crashes that might have occurred during morning rush-hour. If there isn't a widow seat, either stand and stare off into space or sit in an aisle seat and count the fibers in your seat. Do anything but stare openly at people. Through years of peering over books and eavesdropping on my brothers' drinking and smoking in their bedrooms, I've become good at watching people without them knowing about it; only attempt if you think you can get away with it without getting shot (because let's face it, that happens on buses.)
As I rode on my afternoon commute home once, a man got on and sat beside me, it wasn't the big if a deal, the bus was full and I was just getting to the good part in my book. But all of the sudden I felt a pair of eyes on me the way someone feels after reading a crime novel about a peeping-tom. I glance over at the man and his right eye appeared to be staring peacefully out the window but his left eye was situated directly on me. I was startled at first, not quite expecting the man to be staring both at me and the business buildings of downtown at the same time. I did my best to go back to my book but every once and a while, my eyes would find themselves checking back on the eye to see if it was still staring at me; it always was. I wanted to stab his lazy-eye out with the pen in my bus-riding bag.
B] If you happen to be traveling with another adult, you may do your best to try to sit together but do not ask someone to move so that you can sit next to your travel partner. That's just rude.
C] If you are traveling with a child, please follow these instructions carefully. Wrap the child tightly using your strongest arm to prevent such things from happening as: running, jumping, skipping, or flailing. With your other hand, place it firmly over their mouth and pinch their nose closed with your first finger and thumb. This will cause them to fall into a delightfully quiet, coma-like state, allowing other passengers to enjoy their ride without sobs, shrieks, or incessant babbling. If you fail to do this and your child insists on making a spectacle, the other passengers will insist on glaring at you with daggers in their eyes and attempt to quiet the child themselves by any means necessary.
After a long weekend losing myself in the thudding lullaby of the local clubs, I was looking forward to catching a short nap on my commute to work. At the stop after I got on was a large, round woman with frizzy hair and an exhausted expression...toting behind her two children, one boy an one girl. The girl wasn't too bad at first, sitting quietly beside her mother, making her two dolls kiss over and over. Then the bus started moving, unhinging a nerve in the girl causing her to wail in terror the entire time she was on board. The woman did nothing. Meanwhile, the boy began wandering around the bus, climbing into empty seats and startling passengers by popping up behind them and making dinosaur noises. After he grew tired of this, he began racing his imaginary friend to either end of the bus. Growing steadily annoyed and after getting my foot stomped on a few times, I politely asked the mother if she could ask her child to sit down and be quiet. The mother scoffed, "Like I can control him." and then I made my decision. As the bus pulled up to a stop, and the boy raced to the back of the bus, I stuck out my foot and tripped him. He proceeded to burst into tears and roll on the floor holding his now bloody nose and I proceeded to exit the bus a full 10 blocks from my stop.
4) Always. Always always always bathe within the 12 hours prior to boarding the bus. If you wear cologne or perfume, limit yourself to 2 spritz's at most. No one wants to sit next to Pigpen from Peanuts nor does anyone want to sit next to a Bath and Body Works medley.
After a double shift at work, I boarded the bus, happy to be headed home. When I got on, I realized there was only one seat remaining next to a stick thin man in a dirty t-shirt and athletic shorts. I had just spent 8 hours standing so I took the seat beside him. I'd rather sit awkwardly next to someone than stand for one more moment. The minute I sat down, I thought, "I should have stood." He smelled like a 12 year old boy who's sweat glands just developed and had yet to discover deodorant. On top of that there was a musky, unidentifyable stench about him. I was doing my best not to vomit all over him and reach for a pole to cling to so I could stand for the remainder of my commute when he swiftly exited the bus, leaving his wreaking aura behind.
5) Never, under any circumstances are you permitted to engage in a conversation with someone. You may exchange poliete nods and maybe a quiet "hello" if you're feeling particularly kind. The only exception for this rule is if you are seated in an aisle seat and someone is beside you and you need to pull the cord for your stop. You may then, in as few words as possible, ask the person next to you to pull the cord for you. But it is preferred for you to merely tap their shoulder and then meekly point to the cord.
My very first day of work at my job, I was seated opposite a man in nice slacks, a white business shirt with a argyle sweater vest over it. He seemed normal enough so I passed him a kind smile. I suppose he took that as an invitation to find a new friend and proceeded to tell me his entire life story. Unfortunately, his stop was the same as mine and so his tale continued well after we disembarked the bus. The next day, I took a different route.
6) The last rule, and this is more of a personal rule than a generally accepted rule: only relinquish your seat for the disabled, elderly, or the attractive. And if someone approahes that you know is about to break any of these rules, spread your things out in the seat next to you and think wide thoughts.
I have but three words for this rule as to explain it's existance: seemingly homeless man.
As much flack that I give to the people riding the bus, nothing is more annoying than the voice that comes on over the PA system announcing the stops. While inteded to be helpful and a very nice courtesey, it's more like listening to a throat cancer patient trying to recite Shakespeare. The street names come put in a garbled, robotic tone with curious pronounciations. Instead of stopping at Washington and Center, we stop at "Wallowshingmom and Centaur." Luckily, the bus has a scrolling marquee, that, if in working order, displays the stop we're approaching. Some days it a series of lines and dots as it was my first day riding the bus. Since I didn't quite know where I was or where I was going, I freaked out only a little. I ended up leaning over to the man next to me and asking, "Do you know morse code?" Unfortunately, he didn't so I was forced to squint and peer out the windshield of the bus to read the street signs as they whizzed past; another perk to sitting near the front.
Today the man behind me smells heavily of weed reminding me of my glorious college days...I wonder if he'll share....
On my days on the bus, I work at a restaurant located on the bottom level of a very large mall near downtown. It isn't too bad; our customers are mall shoppers and businessmen and women that work in the nearby buildings, so the tips were usually sonehwere in the $80 - $100 range by the end of the shift. The restaurant is located in a prime people-watching spot. Right beside the public bathrooms and facing the ice skating rink. You can only imagine what type of people I watch on our slow days. Among my favorites are the people returning from the bathroom. You can always tell who didn't wash their hands. Usually putting their hands in their pockets or trying to busy themselves with small tugs to the hem of their shirts; I stare at then like they had just smeared feces all over themselves. On occasion, someone would catch me staring and instead of immediately looking away, I'd just stare them down and make them as uncomfortable as they had made me by knowing that they didn't wash their hands.
But if I'm being perfectly honest, you can only glare at feces-hands for so long. After a while, I'd turn my attention to my favorite form of entertainment: stroller collisions. Not only were they violent enough to warrent a screaming match between parents but sometimes the kids would go flying and one would end up ontop of the other.
A mother was pushing her screaming brat past the skating rink one lazy Monday afternoon, talking on the phone and paying no attention to anyone in front of her. She nearly took out a teenager, no doubtly skipping school to peroose the mall. And she definitely didn't see the other mother pushing her twin boys in a side-by-side stroller as she window shopped. The crash was amazing. Both strollers toppled over sending the three children sprawling in the aisle. The first mom dropped her phone while the other's purse emptied itself beside the children. Immediately, without care to the well-being of their children, the women began screaming at each other blaming the other for a cracked phone screen or a stepped on lipstick. It was a good 2 minutes before either of the parents bent down to check on their child. The parenting skills exuded by these two sent me reeling. For once in my life, I felt bad for the kids.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)