On the Bus

There's a new bank on my bus route, about 10 or so blocks before my stop. They've got a wide screen tv in their waiting area that is clearly visible from the street.

Interestingly enough, they do not keep it tuned to the expected CNN or other news channel. Each day brings a new show, but none so suprising as the recently spied Flavor of Love.

I can only imagine what the office parties were like at that branch this holiday season

Can you think of anything grosser than someone eating while riding public transit? I'm not unusually afeared of germs, but seriously, the bus is a petri dish on wheels - especially during flu season.

To answer my own question, the only thing more disgusting than watching someone eat while riding public transit is smelling the food that someone is eating while riding public transit. Especially when your fellow passenger is eating a banana.

I'm all for Americans eating more fruit & vegetables. As a general rule, I am a fan of the banana. But the wafting odor of banana, mixed with the raunchy bouquet that is know as Metrotransit bus is pretty much the last thing I needed on the long ride home tonight.

I caught a South-bound 12 at Hennepin & 4th St downtown around 6:15 tonight. At the next stop, the driver stops a little after the official MCTO sign, which ticks off the Angry Rider Lady waiting right under said sign. Had she any powers of observation, she would have realized that Driver was pulling up to a spot accessible to the wheelchair bound rider waiting for the 12. Angry Rider is clearly unable to notice anything except the 10 feet (horrors!) that now lie between her and the entrance to the bus. Driver is about to lower the lift that will allow the wheelchair and its owner to board the bus when Angry Rider bounds up the stairs. Angry Rider is lucky she didn’t lose a foot in the moving parts of the stairs/lift, I’ll say. Driver reprimands Angry Rider that wheelchairs have priority when boarding. Angry Rider looks surly and confused. “Priority” is a big word; perhaps Angry Rider is not so much a part of the Scrabble and crossword puzzle set, if you get my drift.

By this time, the wheelchair-bound rider is on the lift and boarding the bus. Only, she’s not in a wheelchair. She’s in a massive scooter thing. The kind advertised on late night TV. The wheelchair rider requests that the driver raise the seats blocking wheelchair seating on both sides of the bus. Her plan is to execute what, in driver’s ed class, is referred to as a “Y” turn. Essentially, she wants to turn her scooter 180 degrees so she will be facing the front of the bus.

What commences is truly a sight to behold and retell over and over again. Scooter Lady scoots back and forth across the width of the bus in her attempt to turn around. Unfortunately, she only scoots back and forth across the same patch of bus floor. Over and over again. Each time catching the plastic “bumpers” of her scooter on various bus protrusions. Still she perseveres in her quest to face the front of the bus. Eventually, she is traversing this path at such a frantic rate that she is ramming the walls of the bus sufficiently to cause the entire bus to rock back and forth. And then the most amazing thing happens.

She gets off her colossal scooter and LIFTS it into place. I kid you not.

While this is happening, I am growing increasingly nauseated by the waves of stale cigarette smoke emanating from Angry Rider. She is sitting directly behind me, and the scent is truly disgusting. I ponder changing seats, but for some reason worry about offending Angry Rider Lady. I am too Midwestern for my own good.

Also at this time, audible over the crash! bang! of the scooter demolition derby is a cell phone conversation taking place just outside the open bus door. It goes like this:

(In a high, sob-choked voice)
“I know you don’t care about me!”
Pause
“Listen, I know you don’t care about me, but I love you. I don’t even want to talk to you because I know you don’t care about me.”
Pause
“Fuck You! Why don’t you care about me?!”

And so on.

Now that the scooter is more or less parked and hopefully secured, Cell Phone Talker Who Loves, but is Not Cared For has boarded the bus and ended his (His! I was certain from the voice that he was a woman!) conversation. By the time he reaches his the back of the bus, he has dialed up the paramour who has spurned him, and the conversation resumes in the same fashion.

By now we are a mere 4 blocks away at 8th & Hennepin. Onto the bus steps Ugly 19 Year Old Girl with Cell Phone Attached to Ear (Who I Used to Think Might Be Mentally Disabled). She sits across from me and continues her phone conversation in the loud, clear, proud voice specific to someone who really wants you to be impressed that they own a cell phone.

Some excerpts from her conversation:

“Seriously, I only associate with, like, high class people.”
“Yeah, he’s getting his PhD in, like, computer programming, so I guess he’s okay to hang out with me.”
“Yeah, that guy was really nice & funny & cute. But he’s still in ‘regular’ college. I mean, one day he’ll be done with school and then he can make a ton of money, but until then… I mean, I don’t want to hang out with low class people.”
“You know, I’m just very picky about who I let hang around with me.”

This is the point at which I must provide some constant details about this lady of society:

She dresses in rumpled black pants and polo shirt (with Chotchkiesque company insignia) everyday. The wardrobe is strictly restaurant bus-person issue.

Dangling around her neck, from a coordinating Chotchkie’s lariat no less, are a set of keys.

Her messy hair is held back from her face with baby barrettes.

She carries the world’s largest sporty backpack, complete with laces, numerous exterior mesh pockets and neon yellow accents.

Clearly she is one Classy Lady.

However, Chotchkie’s conversation does have competition for my ear. Besides the “I love you, you don’t care about me!” exchange which persists from the back of the bus, a few folks behind me simply can not get over the fact that Scooter Lady got off her Scooter and lifted it into place.

I realize that not all disabilities or ailments are apparent, so I’m willing to cut Scooter Lady some slack. But I have to admit, I was thinking the same thing. I just kept it to myself. Because I am Midwestern. And sober. Well, at least at that moment I was sober. And didn’t understand why the drunk guys were more interested in making loud comments like “I bet she doesn’t even need that scooter.” – didn’t they realize that the violence and duration of the bumper car display we witnessed was equally, if not more interesting, fodder for conversation?

By the time Franklin Ave was in sight, I had enough of the stale smoke, ridiculous (and ridiculously private) cell phone conversations and taunts to Scooter Lady. I took my leave of the 12, ran a few errands and continued home on blissfully quiet, scooter-free 28L.

Tonight I waited to catch a Southbound 12/6/28 bus near 4th & Hennepin. A 61 breezed by; it was near the end of its route & ready to head toward the bus garage. As the 61 blew past the bus stop and stopped at the stoplight, a kind of student-y looking 30-ish guy emerged from the bus shelter next to me and ran toward the bus, waving his arms and yelling "Wait! Wait!".

A few seconds later he returned to the bus stop, looking a little out of breath and a bit dejected. Clearly he was not familiar with the 61's route. Whatever; sometimes I feel like half my time on buses is spent listening to riders quizzing drivers about their routes. (Every freaking day someone asks the driver of my 6 Downtown bus if indeed they go downtown. Either the general populace is not as bright as I imagine, or the giant "6 DOWNTOWN" flashing on the front of the bus is only visible to those of us possessing monthly passes.)

Anyway, the guy returns to the bus stop. He's got both hands up near his mouth. As first I think he's lighting a cigarette, or maybe smoking a bowl. Oh I see, he must be playing a harmonica. He's just too far away for me to hear it - thank goodness.

Guy heads into the shelter to check out the posted schedule and returns a few minutes later to sit on the bench behind which I am standing. Although I am happily reading my printout of the Veronica Mars recap from Television Without Pity, I am distracted from my reading enjoyment when I notice the guy still has a hand near his mouth.

I kid you not - He is sucking his thumb.

He is sucking his thumb in public. On the curb of one of the busiest streets in town.

I don't know whether to mock or pity this poor guy.

I took the 28 out to the mall today. Not the wisest use of time as the Sunday schedule is rather limited, but I needed to buy new work clothes and the mall has the largest concentration of stores selling such items. What can you do?

On the way out of the mall I stopped and bought a bottle of water, parched as I was from a couple hours of fruitless searching for a new suit. As I left the mall I saw a 6U in the process of boarding. Serendipity! Quickening my step, I headed toward the bus. Unfortunately I caught the edge of my shoe on the crack between squares of sidewalk. My left ankle faltered and down I went. I landed not only on my right knee and elbow, but also on the bottle of water in my left hand. As the water skidded under my weight across the rough pavement, the bottle tore open a hole and spurted out all over the sidewalk.

I got up, limped back to the entrance to toss the remnants of my beverage into the garbage and then hobbled my way to the bus. I managed to keep from crying until I was actually on the bus. The entire 45 minute ride home was spent with tissue in hand, alternately dabbing at my bleeding knee and elbow and the tears in my eyes.

At no time did any of the dozen or so people sitting at the bus stop (watching me wipe out) nor the 20 or so people on the bus offer help, or even ask if I was okay.

Bastards.

Let me begin by saying that I am a cell phone owner. Unlike many cell owners, I do not carry mine 24/7. Unless I am out alone at night or in a situation where it is imperative that I am accessible (i.e. a friend or relative is ready to give birth, Grandpa is having surgery, John Cusak told me he’d call to confirm plans for our date tonight, etc.), I leave the cell at home. So while I appreciate and utilize the technology, I do not abuse nor am addicted to it.

That being said, I am ready to snark on the idiocy of a cell phone user.

Waiting for a South-bound 28 at Hennepin & 5th early this afternoon, I observed a man talking on his cell phone. A rather portly, middle-aged man. Slightly rumpled in appearance; baggy Levis barely holding on underneath his protruding belly, camp shirt in desperate need of a good ironing, wearing Chester the Molester square-lenses wire-rimmed glasses. He made several calls, all seemingly pointless (“Hi, how’reya doing? Just called to say hi. Blah blah blah.”) except to prove that he’s cool. Why? Because he owns a cell phone. And has apparently missed the memo informing him that pretty much everyone else does too.

Our cell phone chatting friend boarded the bus a few passengers behind me still nannering on with his cool-proving conversation. Upon boarding the bus, he immediately raised his voice in the way that so many annoying public-transit riding cell users do. I will now recount for you the one-sided conversation my fellow bus riders and I were prisoner to hearing:

“Mom, if I did something wrong, I apologize. I never meant to get you in trouble.”

Slight pause.

“But Mom, I told her I DID NOT WANT LEMONS IN MY ICED TEA!”

Another slight pause.

“Mom, I never told said to her ‘Don’t put any Goddamn lemons in my iced tea!!!!’ I asked her to please not put lemons in my iced tea.

Yet another slight pause after which Mr. Cellphone pleaded with a catch in his voice.

“But she brought me iced tea with a lemon slice in it!”

At this point, the older woman across the aisle from me turned around and yelled “Will you shut up!!!! Nobody wants to hear about your silly life!”

Totally awesome.

I think I saw the mystery bus accordian player this weekend. He was sitting on Lake Street infront of the Gap. Of course he was ever so softly playing the accordian.

Fantastic.