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.
Monday, February 28, 2011
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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