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:
Drop my top and let her lick - lick - lick my lollipop
Lay on your stomach girl (just like this), toot that ass up (toot it up)
You can read the rest of the words to the instant classic, "Calling Me" by alleged murder facing a possible death penalty, "Lil Boosie," here.
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.
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?
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).
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.
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.
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!
