Since nothing particularly offensive or interesting has happened on the MTA of late, I thought I'd share another transportation-related story with you.
In the early 90s, my best friend Kate moved to Chicago for a spell. During that summer, some friends and I flew out to visit her during Blues Fest. I'm not a huge fan of flying - I hate the rigmarole of dealing with airport security and cramped flying conditions, of course, but the worst part of it is the constipation.
Airplane air dries me out. Completely.
Anyhoo...after a couple days with clogged pipes, I did something stupid. We went as a group to Ed Debevic's for dinner, and I ordered Ed's Southwest Chicken Salad. Which happens to contain beans. While they may be good for the heart, they are most decidedly not good for the plumbing, if you know what I mean.
Now, Kate lived in Park Ridge, IL. Ed Debevic's was in downtown Chicago. More than an hour apart via public transportation. One of the longest hours of my life.
Not long after boarding the train back to Park Ridge, I started to have stomach cramps. The realization that I might crap my pants right then and there put me into a panic, which in turn led to cold sweats. Among my traveling companions was my brother, who immediately sensed something was wrong and took my hand.
"Squeeze hard when you feel a cramp," he urged. And I did. I squeezed and clenched and sweated the whole way to the metro station where Kate had parked her car. Her apartment was still a bit of a drive away, and I had to go NOW. She remembered that there was a HoJo's nearby, one where I knew the bathroom's location, since we had eaten there every morning on a trip to town the year before. She sped off as fast as she could, with me in the front passenger seat, ready to jump out even before the car had come to a stop.
Within 15 minutes, the ordeal was over, and I was back in the car, still pale but much relieved. Needless to say, I avoided beans for a good 15 years afterward.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Bus Operators
Bus drivers, or "operators" as the internal announcements call them ("if you see anything suspicious, please notify your bus operator immediately"), come in all different shapes, sizes, and personalities.
The MTA switches out drivers periodically - every couple of months or so - so there's always someone new. The current batch of drivers I encounter every day is a quirky one.
One is a rather gruff African American man. He was the daily driver on the 7AM #48 last fall, but now drives that bus only a few days a week. He seems somewhat impatient with boarding passengers, shouting, "step up!" to the ones waiting behind the person currently at the fare box. He also shouts at people who, after boarding, hang around the rear doors. "Step out the back door!" he admonishes, a statement that is somewhat confusing. Some people, I'm sure, think he wants them to exit, but actually he wants them to stand clear of the doors. You see, there's a sign at the front of the bus that states passengers must stand behind the yellow line. The yellow line at the front of the bus is about level with the back of the driver's seat. However, the line at the back is in different places, depending on the style of bus. In older models with stairs, the line is at the edge of the top step, however, in the new ground-level buses, the line is at the door. So if this driver's concern is to keep people behind the yellow line, he doesn't have to worry as much when driving a new bus. Regardless, he yells anyway.
The driver who shares his route in the morning is a grumbly 50-something Caucasian man who yawns loudly and stretches at red lights, and talks to himself the rest of the time. He doesn't seem dangerous, but he does seem a little crazy.
While bus operators on the morning end of things seem to be consistent, I never know who I'm going to get in the afternoon, when buses are usually late or occasionally do not come at all. The majority of time, however, there's one of two African American women. One I call "The Avoider" because she tries her best not to pick up passengers. The Avoider, once she closes her doors and pulls away from the corner, will not allow other passengers to board, even if she is waiting at a light and the passenger wannabe is standing in the street, banging on the closed door. There have been times when I've trotted to the bus and had the doors close in my face because I was not already on the bus stop during the 10 seconds she had the doors open. I'm usually very polite, saying "hello," "good morning," "thank you," whatever to the operators, but The Avoider gets no such niceties from me; however, the times she's left me on the corner earned her a barrage of well-deserved expletives.
During the school year, the bus gets very crowded with standing passengers and most of the time there are also dozens of people waiting on the bus stops. The Avoider, once she sees a crowd, will not stop for them. If there are passengers who wish to deboard on a crowded corner, she will pull over across the street from the designated stop and allow them to get off, but she will not allow additional passengers to come onto the vehicle.
The other afternoon driver I encounter most regularly is exactly the opposite. If there are 65 people on the bus, packed cheek to jowl, she will attempt to pick up another 10 or more passengers, sometimes sitting through several light changes until the passengers already on the bus have filled every inch of floor space in order to allow the new people on.
I don't think it's right for people to be made so uncomfortable. There should be more buses in the early morning and in the afternoon during the school year, but I suppose that's too hard for the MTA to figure out.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
The MTA switches out drivers periodically - every couple of months or so - so there's always someone new. The current batch of drivers I encounter every day is a quirky one.
One is a rather gruff African American man. He was the daily driver on the 7AM #48 last fall, but now drives that bus only a few days a week. He seems somewhat impatient with boarding passengers, shouting, "step up!" to the ones waiting behind the person currently at the fare box. He also shouts at people who, after boarding, hang around the rear doors. "Step out the back door!" he admonishes, a statement that is somewhat confusing. Some people, I'm sure, think he wants them to exit, but actually he wants them to stand clear of the doors. You see, there's a sign at the front of the bus that states passengers must stand behind the yellow line. The yellow line at the front of the bus is about level with the back of the driver's seat. However, the line at the back is in different places, depending on the style of bus. In older models with stairs, the line is at the edge of the top step, however, in the new ground-level buses, the line is at the door. So if this driver's concern is to keep people behind the yellow line, he doesn't have to worry as much when driving a new bus. Regardless, he yells anyway.
The driver who shares his route in the morning is a grumbly 50-something Caucasian man who yawns loudly and stretches at red lights, and talks to himself the rest of the time. He doesn't seem dangerous, but he does seem a little crazy.
While bus operators on the morning end of things seem to be consistent, I never know who I'm going to get in the afternoon, when buses are usually late or occasionally do not come at all. The majority of time, however, there's one of two African American women. One I call "The Avoider" because she tries her best not to pick up passengers. The Avoider, once she closes her doors and pulls away from the corner, will not allow other passengers to board, even if she is waiting at a light and the passenger wannabe is standing in the street, banging on the closed door. There have been times when I've trotted to the bus and had the doors close in my face because I was not already on the bus stop during the 10 seconds she had the doors open. I'm usually very polite, saying "hello," "good morning," "thank you," whatever to the operators, but The Avoider gets no such niceties from me; however, the times she's left me on the corner earned her a barrage of well-deserved expletives.
During the school year, the bus gets very crowded with standing passengers and most of the time there are also dozens of people waiting on the bus stops. The Avoider, once she sees a crowd, will not stop for them. If there are passengers who wish to deboard on a crowded corner, she will pull over across the street from the designated stop and allow them to get off, but she will not allow additional passengers to come onto the vehicle.
The other afternoon driver I encounter most regularly is exactly the opposite. If there are 65 people on the bus, packed cheek to jowl, she will attempt to pick up another 10 or more passengers, sometimes sitting through several light changes until the passengers already on the bus have filled every inch of floor space in order to allow the new people on.
I don't think it's right for people to be made so uncomfortable. There should be more buses in the early morning and in the afternoon during the school year, but I suppose that's too hard for the MTA to figure out.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
New Buses
While I can appreciate the newest buses on the line for their "green" quality, I'm not all that crazy about them, comfort-wise. The seats are arranged farther apart from one another, which makes for fewer seats on the bus (but no fewer passengers - more folks must stand). While this is fine for the really fat fatties (and they are legion), for me, there's entirely too much room between my knees and the seat in front of me, leaving me clinging for dear life to my bags lest they slip off onto the filthy floor.
The seats themselves, although placed farther apart to accommodate gigantic guts and the occasional very tall person, somehow feel narrower. Rather than actually being smaller, I think the seats have a new un-ergonomic curve, which make them somewhat uncomfortable for those of us who are wide of ass. They may be higher off the ground as well, as I can't quite put my feet flat on the ground. After an hour ride, one of my legs has usually fallen asleep.
The windows no longer open sideways; instead, there's a transom window at the top, which requires passengers to stand before opening them, preferably with the help of the passenger seated in front or behind (the handles are spaced quite a distance apart). Also preferably when the bus is not moving, which leads to falling, sometimes on me.
The last several models of bus have had baseboard heat, creating a 4" thick bump protruding from the inside wall of the bus at about ankle level and taking up valuable leg room. When the heat is on, it's a bit like riding a motorcycle in shorts. I'm surprised I don't have a permanent burn mark on my right ankle (as I normally prefer sitting on the right side of the bus). The bus drivers sit in isolation in the front and can't really tell what the temperature is like for the passengers; occasionally this leads to having the heat on when it's unnecessary (as on recent mornings). Heat on + inability to open windows = uncomfortable passengers.
Woe is me when I start having hot flashes. By that time, the whole fleet will probably be new. :(
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
The seats themselves, although placed farther apart to accommodate gigantic guts and the occasional very tall person, somehow feel narrower. Rather than actually being smaller, I think the seats have a new un-ergonomic curve, which make them somewhat uncomfortable for those of us who are wide of ass. They may be higher off the ground as well, as I can't quite put my feet flat on the ground. After an hour ride, one of my legs has usually fallen asleep.
The windows no longer open sideways; instead, there's a transom window at the top, which requires passengers to stand before opening them, preferably with the help of the passenger seated in front or behind (the handles are spaced quite a distance apart). Also preferably when the bus is not moving, which leads to falling, sometimes on me.
The last several models of bus have had baseboard heat, creating a 4" thick bump protruding from the inside wall of the bus at about ankle level and taking up valuable leg room. When the heat is on, it's a bit like riding a motorcycle in shorts. I'm surprised I don't have a permanent burn mark on my right ankle (as I normally prefer sitting on the right side of the bus). The bus drivers sit in isolation in the front and can't really tell what the temperature is like for the passengers; occasionally this leads to having the heat on when it's unnecessary (as on recent mornings). Heat on + inability to open windows = uncomfortable passengers.
Woe is me when I start having hot flashes. By that time, the whole fleet will probably be new. :(
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Garbage In, Garbage Out
Seems like people don't bother much to go to school or work on Mondays, so the bus was pretty quiet yesterday morning...except for the man in headphones, "singing" along to what was being piped into his ears.
Some of the cleaner lyrics included:
Needless to say, the little old ladies on the bus were aghast and threw dirty looks towards the offender, who, with his eyes closed, was completely oblivious.
While it's rude and obnoxious to listen to loud music or to sing out loud (particularly when the singer is obviously tone deaf, but aren't they usually the guilty ones?), bus riders are largely used to it. However, when rude and obnoxious is also offensive and sexist, then I get angry. There is so much rap/hip hop music that glorifies sex and objectifies women as nothing more than someplace warm and wet in which to park, and people happily spend their money on it, support these vile concepts, and perpetuate misogyny. Women who buy or listen to this crap should be ashamed of themselves.
If not, I am ashamed for them.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Some of the cleaner lyrics included:
Drop my top and let her lick - lick - lick my lollipopYou can read the rest of the words to the instant classic, "Calling Me" by alleged murder facing a possible death penalty, "Lil Boosie," here.
Lay on your stomach girl (just like this), toot that ass up (toot it up)
Needless to say, the little old ladies on the bus were aghast and threw dirty looks towards the offender, who, with his eyes closed, was completely oblivious.
While it's rude and obnoxious to listen to loud music or to sing out loud (particularly when the singer is obviously tone deaf, but aren't they usually the guilty ones?), bus riders are largely used to it. However, when rude and obnoxious is also offensive and sexist, then I get angry. There is so much rap/hip hop music that glorifies sex and objectifies women as nothing more than someplace warm and wet in which to park, and people happily spend their money on it, support these vile concepts, and perpetuate misogyny. Women who buy or listen to this crap should be ashamed of themselves.
If not, I am ashamed for them.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Eating on Public Transportation
Don't know why this person bothered to engage the eater. If you call someone an "animal," there had better be a locked, 10-foot high, barbed-wire-topped fence, between you. Otherwise, you might end up wearing their lunch.
I also don't understand why people eat on public transportation - it's not the most sanitary or convenient location. They can't wait 20 minutes until they get home?
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
I also don't understand why people eat on public transportation - it's not the most sanitary or convenient location. They can't wait 20 minutes until they get home?
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Flashback! July 26, 2002
Huh?
I was waiting for the bus this morning, in the same place I have been standing for almost two years now. I was waiting for the same bus that I always take - the Express to downtown. There's usually not much to do while I am standing there; sometimes I read, but mostly I just observe my surroundings. I notice people going to 7AM Mass. I notice the man who parks his car across the street, reads the newspaper with the engine on, then drives off again (a daily occurrence). I notice the umpteen joggers and dog walkers and bicyclists (who shouldn't be on the sidewalk, btw). But today, I was the one noticed. After the third male motorist who stared at me passed, I wondered if my left breast wasn't maybe hanging out, or if I had a gaping hole in my pants, or a big ole pile of bird shit was perched undaintily on my head. John, a neighbor who on occasion catches the same bus, walked up toward me, said "good morning" and then stared at the top of my head momentairly before assuming his position on the sidewalk. I had to know. "Do I look odd this morning?" I asked him. "No, you look fine. Your hair is a bit windblown." (Guess he noticed I noticed his glance hairward.) It was a bit windy, and I had already checked my hair in my little mirror and found nothing extraordinary about it this morning.
I still haven't figured it out. I haven't gotten any odd looks at work (yet).
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
I was waiting for the bus this morning, in the same place I have been standing for almost two years now. I was waiting for the same bus that I always take - the Express to downtown. There's usually not much to do while I am standing there; sometimes I read, but mostly I just observe my surroundings. I notice people going to 7AM Mass. I notice the man who parks his car across the street, reads the newspaper with the engine on, then drives off again (a daily occurrence). I notice the umpteen joggers and dog walkers and bicyclists (who shouldn't be on the sidewalk, btw). But today, I was the one noticed. After the third male motorist who stared at me passed, I wondered if my left breast wasn't maybe hanging out, or if I had a gaping hole in my pants, or a big ole pile of bird shit was perched undaintily on my head. John, a neighbor who on occasion catches the same bus, walked up toward me, said "good morning" and then stared at the top of my head momentairly before assuming his position on the sidewalk. I had to know. "Do I look odd this morning?" I asked him. "No, you look fine. Your hair is a bit windblown." (Guess he noticed I noticed his glance hairward.) It was a bit windy, and I had already checked my hair in my little mirror and found nothing extraordinary about it this morning.
I still haven't figured it out. I haven't gotten any odd looks at work (yet).
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A Fun Ride Home
The bus I usually take home in the evening was either very early, or didn't show up at all. Instead, I ended up waiting in the cold for 20 minutes until the next bus came along. Because there was no 4:05pm bus, the 4:20 (which managed to move two whole blocks by 4:30) got very crowded very quickly and I knew I wouldn't be sitting alone for long.
About three minutes later, a tall, middle-aged, bald man sat down and pressed himself up against me, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, as if he were a scared little boy and I were his mommy. Only he was no little boy, easily weighing about 180, and the pressure he placed on the left side of my body could only mean he was actually leaning into me. I recognized him as Mr Nervous Condition.
Several months ago, on my morning commute, I was squashed up against the window by the same man. Not only did he sit inappropriately close, he also was a leg-jiggler. At one point I exclaimed, "please stop doing that!" to which he replied "I have a nervous condition, ma'am."
That set off a stream of expletives from me. If this fucker was telling the truth and had an actual condition, why did he not have the common courtesy to give me some breathing room? Why did he have to press himself up against my person? Because he was a fucking rude moron. And I called him as much. We had just reached his stop, and I was cursing him as he walked towards the door. He kept looking back at me and saying, "excuse me?" in a rather threatening way, but that did not dissuade me from cursing him to hell and back.
This time, I didn't say anything, instead I take great pleasure in the fantasy that I was beating him about the head and shoulders with my umbrella, rather like Ruth Buzzi's Gladys Ormphby.
Meanwhile, pins and needles have set into my left shoulder and leg. Not only that, I realize that there are three enterprising businessmen on board, selling bottles of cheap knockoff perfumes, obviously spraying anyone willing to look their direction because suddenly I am being bombarded with an assortment of unpleasant smells. One of them is standing next to Mr Nervous Condition and offers him a spritz. I immediately raise my arms over my face and head in a defensive posture, much as I do when I enter a Macy's. Initially Mr NC refuses, but then acquiesces to a spray on his hand, which he then rubs onto his other hand. Now not only is he crushing me and jiggling his leg against mine, he also stinks.
While this is all happening, I am aware that there are two men standing behind me, near the rear door, clapping rhythmically, like fools. I'm listening to my iPod, so I don't can't hear their conversation to know exactly why they are doing this. All I know is that there's no protective plexiglass between the back of my head and their hands, and if the bus lurches and one of them hits me, all I can say is that he is going to meet my umbrella in a big hurry.
Eventually, Mr NC gets off the bus and I can stretch a bit. The Purveyors of Stink, however, are still on board and continue to peddle their dubiously-obtained wares. As the man who appears to be the ringleader - he carries the bag of bottles - sits down across the aisle from me, I notice that he is wafting quite the fragrance himself. Not cheap perfume, but rank body odor.
I was never so happy that my stop was next.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
About three minutes later, a tall, middle-aged, bald man sat down and pressed himself up against me, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, as if he were a scared little boy and I were his mommy. Only he was no little boy, easily weighing about 180, and the pressure he placed on the left side of my body could only mean he was actually leaning into me. I recognized him as Mr Nervous Condition.
Several months ago, on my morning commute, I was squashed up against the window by the same man. Not only did he sit inappropriately close, he also was a leg-jiggler. At one point I exclaimed, "please stop doing that!" to which he replied "I have a nervous condition, ma'am."
That set off a stream of expletives from me. If this fucker was telling the truth and had an actual condition, why did he not have the common courtesy to give me some breathing room? Why did he have to press himself up against my person? Because he was a fucking rude moron. And I called him as much. We had just reached his stop, and I was cursing him as he walked towards the door. He kept looking back at me and saying, "excuse me?" in a rather threatening way, but that did not dissuade me from cursing him to hell and back.
This time, I didn't say anything, instead I take great pleasure in the fantasy that I was beating him about the head and shoulders with my umbrella, rather like Ruth Buzzi's Gladys Ormphby.
Meanwhile, pins and needles have set into my left shoulder and leg. Not only that, I realize that there are three enterprising businessmen on board, selling bottles of cheap knockoff perfumes, obviously spraying anyone willing to look their direction because suddenly I am being bombarded with an assortment of unpleasant smells. One of them is standing next to Mr Nervous Condition and offers him a spritz. I immediately raise my arms over my face and head in a defensive posture, much as I do when I enter a Macy's. Initially Mr NC refuses, but then acquiesces to a spray on his hand, which he then rubs onto his other hand. Now not only is he crushing me and jiggling his leg against mine, he also stinks.
While this is all happening, I am aware that there are two men standing behind me, near the rear door, clapping rhythmically, like fools. I'm listening to my iPod, so I don't can't hear their conversation to know exactly why they are doing this. All I know is that there's no protective plexiglass between the back of my head and their hands, and if the bus lurches and one of them hits me, all I can say is that he is going to meet my umbrella in a big hurry.
Eventually, Mr NC gets off the bus and I can stretch a bit. The Purveyors of Stink, however, are still on board and continue to peddle their dubiously-obtained wares. As the man who appears to be the ringleader - he carries the bag of bottles - sits down across the aisle from me, I notice that he is wafting quite the fragrance himself. Not cheap perfume, but rank body odor.
I was never so happy that my stop was next.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Senor Ben Gay
My Phew! post the other day prompted a friend to send me a quick note that her current seat-mate on the train reeked of Icy Hot. And that reminded me of Señor Ben Gay.
I've never been fond of striking up conversations with strangers, and that is definitely true of strangers on the bus. To avoid chatting, I tend to fix my face in as grumpy an expression as possible (not difficult), hoping that other passengers might get the idea that I bite. I also try to make sure I have a book with me so there's never a chance for eye contact.
One man was not deterred.
Señor Ben Gay would make sure to sit in front of me whenever he got on the bus. He'd turn and smile and try to make conversation, and I'd nod my head, smile vaguely, and then go back to my book. He'd interrupt my reading with a question, and I'd pretend I didn't understand, shrug, and go back to my book.
Ok, so I didn't have to pretend. Señor Ben Gay had absolutely no grasp of the English language other than "hello," and I don't speak Spanish, unless you count my knowledge of the words, "queso," "dulce de leche," "cerveza," "cucaracha," and "cojones." Oh, and "Javier Bardem." While I'm sure Señor Ben Gay was a perfectly nice guy, I was a newlywed and had absolutely no interest in being chatted up by some swarthy lothario, no matter what language was being spoken.
Ok. Maybe I would have made an exception for Javier Bardem.
Not only was there a language barrier (thankfully, actually), Señor Ben Gay stank. He smelled exactly as you probably think he did - of Ben Gay. Also of dirty clothes. Either he wore the stinking paste instead of after shave, or he had applied it some time ago before putting on his jacket...which smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years.
I spent much of my childhood in a fog of Ben Gay. It was my mother's favorite remedy for the sore throat, and she would slather it all over mine if I even suggested there might be a tiny bit of pain in the area. After covering my neck with an old kerchief so I wouldn't get Ben Gay in my hair (which happened anyway), she'd send me to bed, ignoring my protestations that the cream was burning my neck. I never understood the logic that something applied to the outside of my body would affect the inside of my body, but my mother was never big on logic, especially if it came from the mouth of an 8-year-old. She tortured my brother in the same way, and she also self-medicated, so if I had a cold, passed it to David, and he in turn gave it to mom, it could be weeks before we were rid of the hideous and constant stench of wintergreen and menthol.
So Señor Ben Gay had three strikes against him: I could not understand him; I could not stand the way he smelled; and he dared speak to me before I had my morning coffee. Eventually I stopped acknowledging his presence and he got the hint; when he did board the bus, he still sat in front of me and angled his head so he could see me, but he no longer tried to engage me in conversation.
After a while, he stopped taking the 8 Express. My nasal passages were grateful.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
I've never been fond of striking up conversations with strangers, and that is definitely true of strangers on the bus. To avoid chatting, I tend to fix my face in as grumpy an expression as possible (not difficult), hoping that other passengers might get the idea that I bite. I also try to make sure I have a book with me so there's never a chance for eye contact.
One man was not deterred.
Señor Ben Gay would make sure to sit in front of me whenever he got on the bus. He'd turn and smile and try to make conversation, and I'd nod my head, smile vaguely, and then go back to my book. He'd interrupt my reading with a question, and I'd pretend I didn't understand, shrug, and go back to my book.
Ok, so I didn't have to pretend. Señor Ben Gay had absolutely no grasp of the English language other than "hello," and I don't speak Spanish, unless you count my knowledge of the words, "queso," "dulce de leche," "cerveza," "cucaracha," and "cojones." Oh, and "Javier Bardem." While I'm sure Señor Ben Gay was a perfectly nice guy, I was a newlywed and had absolutely no interest in being chatted up by some swarthy lothario, no matter what language was being spoken.
Ok. Maybe I would have made an exception for Javier Bardem.
Not only was there a language barrier (thankfully, actually), Señor Ben Gay stank. He smelled exactly as you probably think he did - of Ben Gay. Also of dirty clothes. Either he wore the stinking paste instead of after shave, or he had applied it some time ago before putting on his jacket...which smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years.
I spent much of my childhood in a fog of Ben Gay. It was my mother's favorite remedy for the sore throat, and she would slather it all over mine if I even suggested there might be a tiny bit of pain in the area. After covering my neck with an old kerchief so I wouldn't get Ben Gay in my hair (which happened anyway), she'd send me to bed, ignoring my protestations that the cream was burning my neck. I never understood the logic that something applied to the outside of my body would affect the inside of my body, but my mother was never big on logic, especially if it came from the mouth of an 8-year-old. She tortured my brother in the same way, and she also self-medicated, so if I had a cold, passed it to David, and he in turn gave it to mom, it could be weeks before we were rid of the hideous and constant stench of wintergreen and menthol.
So Señor Ben Gay had three strikes against him: I could not understand him; I could not stand the way he smelled; and he dared speak to me before I had my morning coffee. Eventually I stopped acknowledging his presence and he got the hint; when he did board the bus, he still sat in front of me and angled his head so he could see me, but he no longer tried to engage me in conversation.
After a while, he stopped taking the 8 Express. My nasal passages were grateful.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Flashback! Tuesday, July 30, 2002
Before I started my knitting blog, my food blog, and my beauty/fashion blog, I had an old-fashioned vanity blog. Here's one of the MTA-related posts where I get a little bit more soap-box-y than usual.
Above the Law
This is not going to be a good day - I can feel it.
It started out badly. I got to the bus stop an extra 2 or 3 minutes early, and it was already hot at just before 7AM. As the sun rose over the building across the street, I moved slowly northward into the rapidly retreating shadow, in order to stay as cool as possible. At just about ten minutes after 7, the time the Express bus thinks about heading down my way, a bus came roaring down past me, without stopping. There was a small rectangle of paper taped to the front windshield; this usually says "EXPRESS." But the bus passed me so rapidly, I didn't get a chance to see what was written on the rectangle. Well, you say, there should be an electronic display stating the destination as well as the number and type of bus. Of course...there's always an electronic display. BUT IT NEVER WORKS. Which is why the bus drivers are forced to make crappy paper signs and tape them to the windshield. Heaven forbid the MTA services their buses in any way! And people wonder why wheels have been mysteriously coming off buses. The truth is that nobody gives a damn about the safety or comfort of the passengers. The MTA just wants our $1.35 (or in my case, $1.70), and we should be grateful that they deign to put some multi-wheeled, pollution-belching deathtraps on the road for our "convenience."
Anyway, that was probably the Express bus that flew past me, because by 7:15, it had not arrived. I didn't want to wait another 15 minutes for the second Express, so I reluctantly boarded a local. Amazingly, it had a working air conditioner (another rare item on MTA buses).
The locals go through a pretty unsavory neighborhood and occasionally picks up an unsavory character or two, so I prefer to avoid them completely. I gritted my teeth as I sat at the front of the bus and tried to read my esoteric Japanese novel. The bus rapidly filled, but as I had my bag on the seat next to me, I was still seated alone. Then this behemoth of a woman barked "excuse me" my way and my bag had to relinquish its seat. This woman was so fat (how fat was she?) that the rolls of fat on her back looked like a second pair of triple F-cup breasts. She was wearing a long white t-shirt and red shorts, with a cut or slashed fringe on the sleeves and pants cuffs. Intellectually, I knew this must have been done with a pair of scissors, but it was not hard to imagine that she chewed through the fabric to create the loose, uneven strips of cloth. Her face was like Mike Tyson with lipstick (but she had a manlier voice). This vision of loveliness also had a fetching hairdo - short cropped curls with a shaved nape, dyed Bozo orange.
Miss Bozo had embarked with a man who chose an empty seat a few rows behind her. Of course the two had to have a shouted conversation. As she brazenly opened a bag of Utz sour cream and onion potato chips and took a big handful (despite the "no eating, drinking, or playing music without headphones" sign posted not 15 feet from her snout), she said something that gave me a Revelation. "I can't believe he was walking onna street, wiped his sweat with a tissue, threw the tissue on the ground...and got arrested for that!" She wiped her greasy paw on her ample ass to punctuate her thought. This was the reason that parts of the area which the bus was currently riding through were ankle-deep in trash. This was why the basement entrance to a boarded-up, once lovely row house was full to street level with garbage. Because people think they have the right to throw a piece of tissue on the ground and get away with it. The City of Baltimore has a $50 fine for littering, so I don't believe that the tissue-tosser in question was "arrested." But he should have been given a ticket. And so should every lazy bastard who throws a fast food wrapper, potato chip bag, or anything else that belongs in a garbage can on the street. This isn't a Third World country without sanitation or trash pick-up. This is the United States of America - keep your country clean or get your fat lazy ugly ass out of it!
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Above the Law
This is not going to be a good day - I can feel it.
It started out badly. I got to the bus stop an extra 2 or 3 minutes early, and it was already hot at just before 7AM. As the sun rose over the building across the street, I moved slowly northward into the rapidly retreating shadow, in order to stay as cool as possible. At just about ten minutes after 7, the time the Express bus thinks about heading down my way, a bus came roaring down past me, without stopping. There was a small rectangle of paper taped to the front windshield; this usually says "EXPRESS." But the bus passed me so rapidly, I didn't get a chance to see what was written on the rectangle. Well, you say, there should be an electronic display stating the destination as well as the number and type of bus. Of course...there's always an electronic display. BUT IT NEVER WORKS. Which is why the bus drivers are forced to make crappy paper signs and tape them to the windshield. Heaven forbid the MTA services their buses in any way! And people wonder why wheels have been mysteriously coming off buses. The truth is that nobody gives a damn about the safety or comfort of the passengers. The MTA just wants our $1.35 (or in my case, $1.70), and we should be grateful that they deign to put some multi-wheeled, pollution-belching deathtraps on the road for our "convenience."
Anyway, that was probably the Express bus that flew past me, because by 7:15, it had not arrived. I didn't want to wait another 15 minutes for the second Express, so I reluctantly boarded a local. Amazingly, it had a working air conditioner (another rare item on MTA buses).
The locals go through a pretty unsavory neighborhood and occasionally picks up an unsavory character or two, so I prefer to avoid them completely. I gritted my teeth as I sat at the front of the bus and tried to read my esoteric Japanese novel. The bus rapidly filled, but as I had my bag on the seat next to me, I was still seated alone. Then this behemoth of a woman barked "excuse me" my way and my bag had to relinquish its seat. This woman was so fat (how fat was she?) that the rolls of fat on her back looked like a second pair of triple F-cup breasts. She was wearing a long white t-shirt and red shorts, with a cut or slashed fringe on the sleeves and pants cuffs. Intellectually, I knew this must have been done with a pair of scissors, but it was not hard to imagine that she chewed through the fabric to create the loose, uneven strips of cloth. Her face was like Mike Tyson with lipstick (but she had a manlier voice). This vision of loveliness also had a fetching hairdo - short cropped curls with a shaved nape, dyed Bozo orange.
Miss Bozo had embarked with a man who chose an empty seat a few rows behind her. Of course the two had to have a shouted conversation. As she brazenly opened a bag of Utz sour cream and onion potato chips and took a big handful (despite the "no eating, drinking, or playing music without headphones" sign posted not 15 feet from her snout), she said something that gave me a Revelation. "I can't believe he was walking onna street, wiped his sweat with a tissue, threw the tissue on the ground...and got arrested for that!" She wiped her greasy paw on her ample ass to punctuate her thought. This was the reason that parts of the area which the bus was currently riding through were ankle-deep in trash. This was why the basement entrance to a boarded-up, once lovely row house was full to street level with garbage. Because people think they have the right to throw a piece of tissue on the ground and get away with it. The City of Baltimore has a $50 fine for littering, so I don't believe that the tissue-tosser in question was "arrested." But he should have been given a ticket. And so should every lazy bastard who throws a fast food wrapper, potato chip bag, or anything else that belongs in a garbage can on the street. This isn't a Third World country without sanitation or trash pick-up. This is the United States of America - keep your country clean or get your fat lazy ugly ass out of it!
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Phew!
Why is it that at least once per week I get stuck with an oral-hygiene-deficient mouth-breather behind me? Most of the time the stench is garden-variety "morning breath," but every horrible once in a while I get someone with what I call, "shit-breath." It's as if he or she pulled breakfast out of the litter box.
Various types of stink regularly waft through fetid bus air. In the summer there are the smells of sweaty cumin-y armpits and pickle-y feet; in the winter we lose the sweat but still contend with the aromas of unwashed hair and cheap dollar-store perfume that might be more appropriate as a toilet bowl "deodorizer." "Coconut" seems to be a popular choice, as does "strawberry." The other morning, a young man strode past me smelling like he had recently wrestled a skunk, and lost.
Friday afternoon, I shared a seat with a woman carrying a McDonald's bag that contained cooling french fries. The greasy aroma was made even more nauseating by the smell of crab soup being eaten by a brazen woman sitting across the aisle. Every once in a while, someone eats chicken wings doused in hot sauce. Not only is the smell disgusting, the thought of filthy hands touching snotted-up bus rails before digging into a late lunch really makes me ill. Sometimes I think it might be fun to vomit on one of these diners.
They make hand sanitizers. Can we get some air sanitizers now, too? (And don't say Febreze, cuz that stinks, too.)
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Various types of stink regularly waft through fetid bus air. In the summer there are the smells of sweaty cumin-y armpits and pickle-y feet; in the winter we lose the sweat but still contend with the aromas of unwashed hair and cheap dollar-store perfume that might be more appropriate as a toilet bowl "deodorizer." "Coconut" seems to be a popular choice, as does "strawberry." The other morning, a young man strode past me smelling like he had recently wrestled a skunk, and lost.
Friday afternoon, I shared a seat with a woman carrying a McDonald's bag that contained cooling french fries. The greasy aroma was made even more nauseating by the smell of crab soup being eaten by a brazen woman sitting across the aisle. Every once in a while, someone eats chicken wings doused in hot sauce. Not only is the smell disgusting, the thought of filthy hands touching snotted-up bus rails before digging into a late lunch really makes me ill. Sometimes I think it might be fun to vomit on one of these diners.
They make hand sanitizers. Can we get some air sanitizers now, too? (And don't say Febreze, cuz that stinks, too.)
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Characters
I was looking for a particular image that was filed away on my Web server when I discovered this short essay I had written and submitted to a then-upcoming book of knitting-related stories. (Mine didn't make it. Apparently they were only looking for nauseating, inspirational blather.) Back then, I usually took the 8 Express back and forth to work and saw many of the same people on both ends of the commute.
While not a loner, per se, I have always preferred my own company over just about anyone else's. On the bus, I prefer to sit alone and read, something that was usually do-able on the somewhat unpopular Express. Unfortunately, reading in peace and quiet was almost impossible once the bus reached York and Bellona where the person I referred to as Chicken Woman--for her annoying cackle--and her gaggle of guffawing goons boarded, commandeering the handicapped seats at the front. The sonorous windbag would hold court, trumpeting the boring events of her ordinary life to those held in her thrall, laughing riotously after every proclamation. While she merely annoyed me when I first starting taking the Express, my feelings toward her became a full-blown hatred a few months later as I struggled to accept my mother's recent death. Chicken Woman's constant crowing seemed somehow disrespectful to my memories, to me, and to everyone else on that bus.
A few years later, the 8 Express was re-routed to a much less-scenic area of town. While I didn't appreciate the new view of burned-out buildings and trash-strewn streets, I felt exultant that the route was not convenient for Chicken Woman and much of her brood. For several years I have been free of that obnoxious woman and her mouth.
I do see her board the bus every once in a rare while. She looks about, perhaps to find someone with whom to yammer on about nothing. After the years of evil eye from me, she knows better than to even look my way, which satisfies me immensely.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
While not a loner, per se, I have always preferred my own company over just about anyone else's. On the bus, I prefer to sit alone and read, something that was usually do-able on the somewhat unpopular Express. Unfortunately, reading in peace and quiet was almost impossible once the bus reached York and Bellona where the person I referred to as Chicken Woman--for her annoying cackle--and her gaggle of guffawing goons boarded, commandeering the handicapped seats at the front. The sonorous windbag would hold court, trumpeting the boring events of her ordinary life to those held in her thrall, laughing riotously after every proclamation. While she merely annoyed me when I first starting taking the Express, my feelings toward her became a full-blown hatred a few months later as I struggled to accept my mother's recent death. Chicken Woman's constant crowing seemed somehow disrespectful to my memories, to me, and to everyone else on that bus.
A few years later, the 8 Express was re-routed to a much less-scenic area of town. While I didn't appreciate the new view of burned-out buildings and trash-strewn streets, I felt exultant that the route was not convenient for Chicken Woman and much of her brood. For several years I have been free of that obnoxious woman and her mouth.
I do see her board the bus every once in a rare while. She looks about, perhaps to find someone with whom to yammer on about nothing. After the years of evil eye from me, she knows better than to even look my way, which satisfies me immensely.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Morning Commute
This morning, as I counted unshoveled sidewalks on the way down to work--97(!). including sidewalks in front of homes, both occupied and vacant, "churches," and businesses, on the streets on which I was traveling and not adjacent side streets--I was treated to this conversation by two men sitting across the aisle from me. I'm going to call them "Mumbles" and "Shrill."
Mumbles: "BlablaFUCKbla mumbleFUCK!"
Shrill: "FUCKsqueak eep FUCKing squeak!"
Mumbles: "BlarghFUCKFUCKFUCKgurgle blahmumble."
Shrill: (laughter)
Mumbles: "Grumblemumble gagFUCK bitchmumble blah."
Shrill: "Shriek squeakFUCK peep."
Classy, no? Particularly at 7AM.
Because of the holiday, Monday's commute was pretty quiet. Today wasn't too bad - no students, no standers. But the person who sat next to me leaned on me the whole time, crushing me into the window. I realized about halfway downtown that she was nodding off, so I'd periodically give her a shove towards the aisle, not-so-secretly wishing she'd fall off the seat.
I am horrible, aren't I? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Mumbles: "BlablaFUCKbla mumbleFUCK!"
Shrill: "FUCKsqueak eep FUCKing squeak!"
Mumbles: "BlarghFUCKFUCKFUCKgurgle blahmumble."
Shrill: (laughter)
Mumbles: "Grumblemumble gagFUCK bitchmumble blah."
Shrill: "Shriek squeakFUCK peep."
Classy, no? Particularly at 7AM.
Because of the holiday, Monday's commute was pretty quiet. Today wasn't too bad - no students, no standers. But the person who sat next to me leaned on me the whole time, crushing me into the window. I realized about halfway downtown that she was nodding off, so I'd periodically give her a shove towards the aisle, not-so-secretly wishing she'd fall off the seat.
I am horrible, aren't I? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Happy President's Day!
Remember when we had separate celebrations for Lincoln's Birthday and Washington's Birthday?
I love Federal Holidays - even though I have to go to work, most people do not, and schools are closed, making for a quiet and uncrowded commute.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
I love Federal Holidays - even though I have to go to work, most people do not, and schools are closed, making for a quiet and uncrowded commute.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Greenmount and North
I saw this article about a stabbing on North Avenue in the Sun last week and posted it on Facebook with the comment, "Nice. My bus stops there." My friend Andrée responded with, "At least you don't get off the bus there...."
Well, not on purpose I don't, but once, I had no choice.
The rain was torrential; it was one of those mornings when I looked around the bus and realized I don't want to spend the next 40 days and nights with any of the other 65 or so passengers taking up every available inch of floor and seat space. As the bus approached the intersection of Greenmount and North avenues, I could barely make out the sound of the driver's voice above the din of chatter, announcing that we would all have to deboard and wait for the next bus. Meanwhile, the gutters had become rivers and sadistic motorists were driving as close to the curb as possible in order to send flumes of filthy water onto people on the sidewalk.
We stood at the bus stop, as far from the curb as possible without climbing the fence into the vacant lot behind us. The young woman next to me didn't even have a hat for protection, and her elaborate bi-colored weave was getting soaked. I shared my umbrella with her, and she seemed grateful. I can't understand how a person can leave the house in the morning without rain gear when it's been raining for hours already and the forecast does not suggest an end to the precipitation anytime in the near future. Perhaps she had been too busy texting her friends to notice. :::shrug:::
Our bus, apparently disabled in some way, crossed North Avenue and parked on the far side, flashers on. I felt angry, as I was not only going to be late for work, but also wet and dirty. I was thankful that it was summer, and I was wearing my favorite machine-washable Keen Balis, so at least my shoes weren't being ruined along with my mood.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
Well, not on purpose I don't, but once, I had no choice.
The rain was torrential; it was one of those mornings when I looked around the bus and realized I don't want to spend the next 40 days and nights with any of the other 65 or so passengers taking up every available inch of floor and seat space. As the bus approached the intersection of Greenmount and North avenues, I could barely make out the sound of the driver's voice above the din of chatter, announcing that we would all have to deboard and wait for the next bus. Meanwhile, the gutters had become rivers and sadistic motorists were driving as close to the curb as possible in order to send flumes of filthy water onto people on the sidewalk.
We stood at the bus stop, as far from the curb as possible without climbing the fence into the vacant lot behind us. The young woman next to me didn't even have a hat for protection, and her elaborate bi-colored weave was getting soaked. I shared my umbrella with her, and she seemed grateful. I can't understand how a person can leave the house in the morning without rain gear when it's been raining for hours already and the forecast does not suggest an end to the precipitation anytime in the near future. Perhaps she had been too busy texting her friends to notice. :::shrug:::
Our bus, apparently disabled in some way, crossed North Avenue and parked on the far side, flashers on. I felt angry, as I was not only going to be late for work, but also wet and dirty. I was thankful that it was summer, and I was wearing my favorite machine-washable Keen Balis, so at least my shoes weren't being ruined along with my mood.
Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.
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