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.
No comments:
Post a Comment