(no subject)
The rain is loud and putrid. There you patiently wait, with a soggy, half-recognizable transfer in one hand, and the broken strap of an old green messenger bag in the other. In the distance, you hear the sound of large tires against larger puddles. You silently calculate the most likely point on the curb at which the door of the bus will come to a stop, and you walk to this point, out of the comfort of the brown plastic canopy of the bus stop, into the thick of the loud, putrid downpour.
The bus stops for thirty seconds at a red light. You continue to brave the downpour, knowing you will be first in line to make it out of the rain, into the comfort of a heated bus. Your calculations were about ten feet off. You are now last in line, still in the wet stinky torrent, watching each passenger search for exact change in his or her respective coat pockets, wondering why you're the only one in the world who has an efficient system for keeping money on your person.
Shaking the rain off your jacket, you flash the transfer quickly to the driver, hoping she won't notice that it's long expired, or perhaps that she'll let it slide, because she looks like a kindergarten teacher. Slowly shaking her head, she informs you that it's expired, in a tone that says she's sick of being taken for a fool or a pushover. You try not to make eye contact as you search for exact change in your coat pocket, shove a dollar and twenty-five cents into the slot, grab a real transfer and walk toward the middle of the bus, keeping your steps as dignified as one can on a slippery, moving floor.
You choose a seat positioned directly above the wheels, because it's higher up, and provides you with a brief subliminal sense of superiority. Your soaked, broken messenger bag lay on the seat beside you, and your head rests on the window while you watch frozen drenched people as they scurry across the street.
With each stop, the bus continues to fill its seats with people, and eventually it reaches that breaking point, when you know you'll have to hold the soggy messenger bag on your lap to make space for some other piece of humanity. The question looms in your head: when is the right time to move your bag? You know that until you do, every patron searching for a seat will look at you with disdain and annoyance. You also know that the removal of your bag will be immediately interpreted as an invitation for the nearest boarding passenger to sit next to you. You decide that you'll pick your favorite of this next batch of commuters and remove your bag at just the right moment.
All of a sudden, you see The One. It is The One with whom you may be able to spend the rest of your bus ride, sitting in uncomfortable silence. Your heart flutters. Your eyes are on The One. Your hand is poised on the broken strap of your soaked green messenger bag. When you feel the timing is just right, you pull the bag to your lap, sending a clear invitation to The One that this seat is not taken. Unfortunately, The One does not see your signal. The old scraggly guy behind The One sees your signal. He's got a huge grey beard, and an old t-shirt with an extremely dramatic picture of the american flag. You hope his smell is due to the putrid rain in which he's been standing for the last twenty minutes, but you're not optimistic about that theory. The uncomfortable silence begins.
Your attention never wavers from the window. With all the bus rides you've taken, you've gotten good at this part of the game. Your only focus is your final stop. In your head, you picture the next two turns the bus is going to make before it reaches your destination. At each stop, you silently pray to your current deity that nobody else will get on the bus. After several eternities, your stop approaches. You snap out of your trance. There is one final hurdle, one last test you must perform before you can exit the bus. You have to get past the old scraggly guy sitting next to you with as little interaction as possible. Silently stretching your arm, you ring the bell to stop the bus, hoping he'll notice and move aside. No such luck. The bus begins to slow down. This is going to get awkward. You try half-standing up, hoping he'll get the hint. He doesn't move a muscle. It becomes clear that you'll probably have to say something to him. From deep in your throat comes some kind of grunting, cough-like sound. This finally does the trick. Scraggly-man gets up and out of your way, and you get out of your seat and approach the front of the bus. As you hurry out the door, you forget to avoid eye contact with the driver and receive another slight dose of shame.
Your feet lurch back out into the loud putrid rain, and you scurry toward the brown plastic canopy of the bus stop. There you wait for the next bus.