(no subject)
Ever since moving to Virginia I've accumulated "regulars" in my life. These aren't people I necessarily know or even talk to, but they keep reappearing in my life. I suppose this phenomenon is due to me finally having a schedule. While my schedule is not as tight as some, it's still fairly regular, unlike my college schedule which was hectic and filled with irregular events.
One regular in my life is Eugene. This is of course not this man's name, but rather the name I gave him. I don't know what his real name is, nor do I particularly want to; I just thought Eugene fit him. I first met Eugene when moving in to my apartment. He's a rather short man and heavy set. His shoulders slump forward, which combined with his shuffle, his mumbling, and his developing jowls, gives him an air of Droopy the Dog. He's fairly slovenly in appearance, and given his smell, I would say it's at least in part because he re-wears clothes frequently. His shirt tails are often tucked erratically into his pants and the last few times I've seen him he's had food dribbled down the front of him. Another curious part of Eugene's countenance is a mysterious head wound. I first met Eugene October 1st when I moved in to my apartment. At that time he had several bandaids adorning the top of his bald head. To this day he has the same cuts on his head, except he no longer wears bandaids, opting instead to showcase the fresh crusted blood on his forehead.
Eugene lives on the third floor, which I am thankful for. This is because Eugene is a lurker, and his favorite lurking grounds is the apartment building's lobby. Occasionally he'll stand in front of the building and open the door for people, but most often he'll simply stand in the center of the lobby waiting. I used to wonder why he waited there, but it's become obvious: he's laying in wait for someone to talk to. Eugene's hunting strategy is this: he waits in the lobby for an unsuspecting or vulnerable target, when the target makes their way to the elevator he makes his move and swoops in. When I say "swoops in" I mean he shuffles as fast as he can towards the elevator. Once in the elevator he generally proceeds with this stock conversation. "I like my my job. I work in a law firm. I've worked their 35 years. I'm not a lawyer though, I work in the supply room. Yes I like my job, we have good benefits." It's been roughly the same conversation for 9 months now. Today however he entered the elevator and told me, "I'm watching the Miracle Worker. It's about the people who worked with Helen Keller. It makes me realize how good I have it. It makes me feel bad though that I don't do charity work. So many people do in their free time. I mean lots of folks make model trains, but those are for kids. I guess I shouldn't feel bad that I don't do charity work."
These encounters happen at all hours. Today it happened in the afternoon, but I've had this happen at 11 o'clock at night as well. Most of my regulars, however, are part of my commute to work. There's my morning lady, who is my gauge as to whether or not I'm on time for work. Depending on where I run in to her on my walk to the metro station I know I'm either running ahead or behind schedule. Generally we cross paths in the courtyard of the medical building that we cut through.
Another, and less savory, commuter regular is Spandex man. Spandex man is a fellow BLSer, which is embarrassing to me, but only because I know that I am somehow connected to him. Spandex man is sickly thin and looks jaundiced. He lacks any body fat, and this gives his whole body a sunken, sinewy look that is rather disturbing to see. His name comes from the purple spandex pants I first saw him wearing on the metro. He's so thin that the spandex billows around his legs, only slightly stretching at his bulbous and distorted knees. He rides the train in spandex pants in the winter with paper towels stuffed partially down the front and in short shorts in the summer. I always worry that he will hike them up too far one day and a ball will just come spilling out, because I'm not sure he wears underwear. Spandex man is gruff and rather rude to other riders on the metro and would push an old woman with a cane out of the way so he could have a seat. He reads the Examiner instead of the Express and holds it very close to him, which makes me wonder how ineffectual his glasses are. What makes him more embarrassing though is that he puts his work pants on while on the train. Generally before reaching metro center he stops reading and withdraws his pants from him pink Eastsport backpack and proceeds to put his trousers on over his spandex pants. This always shocks fellow riders, but I've been witness to this event several times now, I still recoil some in horror, but do not look shocked anymore.
What's worse about Spandex Man is that he rides the BLS car on the red line. Many commuters, myself included, pick what car to ride on based on where they need to exit. In order to exit the train closest to the 1rst street escalators at Union Station one needs to board the first car on the red line train. It turns out most people that work at the BLS think this way and so the first car on the red line turns in to the stage of one of my favorite games, "Guess the BLSer." It's as simple as you think it is, scan the car and guess who else works at the BLS, sometimes it's easy, other times it's surprising, often it's embarrassing as you cross 1rst Street and the freak you were watching on the train crosses right in front of you and pulls out his security badge.
These are my regulars. While some are unsavory, they populate my life and keep my company. It makes me wonder if I'm somebody else's regular. What have they named me? How do they describe me to their friends?
One regular in my life is Eugene. This is of course not this man's name, but rather the name I gave him. I don't know what his real name is, nor do I particularly want to; I just thought Eugene fit him. I first met Eugene when moving in to my apartment. He's a rather short man and heavy set. His shoulders slump forward, which combined with his shuffle, his mumbling, and his developing jowls, gives him an air of Droopy the Dog. He's fairly slovenly in appearance, and given his smell, I would say it's at least in part because he re-wears clothes frequently. His shirt tails are often tucked erratically into his pants and the last few times I've seen him he's had food dribbled down the front of him. Another curious part of Eugene's countenance is a mysterious head wound. I first met Eugene October 1st when I moved in to my apartment. At that time he had several bandaids adorning the top of his bald head. To this day he has the same cuts on his head, except he no longer wears bandaids, opting instead to showcase the fresh crusted blood on his forehead.
Eugene lives on the third floor, which I am thankful for. This is because Eugene is a lurker, and his favorite lurking grounds is the apartment building's lobby. Occasionally he'll stand in front of the building and open the door for people, but most often he'll simply stand in the center of the lobby waiting. I used to wonder why he waited there, but it's become obvious: he's laying in wait for someone to talk to. Eugene's hunting strategy is this: he waits in the lobby for an unsuspecting or vulnerable target, when the target makes their way to the elevator he makes his move and swoops in. When I say "swoops in" I mean he shuffles as fast as he can towards the elevator. Once in the elevator he generally proceeds with this stock conversation. "I like my my job. I work in a law firm. I've worked their 35 years. I'm not a lawyer though, I work in the supply room. Yes I like my job, we have good benefits." It's been roughly the same conversation for 9 months now. Today however he entered the elevator and told me, "I'm watching the Miracle Worker. It's about the people who worked with Helen Keller. It makes me realize how good I have it. It makes me feel bad though that I don't do charity work. So many people do in their free time. I mean lots of folks make model trains, but those are for kids. I guess I shouldn't feel bad that I don't do charity work."
These encounters happen at all hours. Today it happened in the afternoon, but I've had this happen at 11 o'clock at night as well. Most of my regulars, however, are part of my commute to work. There's my morning lady, who is my gauge as to whether or not I'm on time for work. Depending on where I run in to her on my walk to the metro station I know I'm either running ahead or behind schedule. Generally we cross paths in the courtyard of the medical building that we cut through.
Another, and less savory, commuter regular is Spandex man. Spandex man is a fellow BLSer, which is embarrassing to me, but only because I know that I am somehow connected to him. Spandex man is sickly thin and looks jaundiced. He lacks any body fat, and this gives his whole body a sunken, sinewy look that is rather disturbing to see. His name comes from the purple spandex pants I first saw him wearing on the metro. He's so thin that the spandex billows around his legs, only slightly stretching at his bulbous and distorted knees. He rides the train in spandex pants in the winter with paper towels stuffed partially down the front and in short shorts in the summer. I always worry that he will hike them up too far one day and a ball will just come spilling out, because I'm not sure he wears underwear. Spandex man is gruff and rather rude to other riders on the metro and would push an old woman with a cane out of the way so he could have a seat. He reads the Examiner instead of the Express and holds it very close to him, which makes me wonder how ineffectual his glasses are. What makes him more embarrassing though is that he puts his work pants on while on the train. Generally before reaching metro center he stops reading and withdraws his pants from him pink Eastsport backpack and proceeds to put his trousers on over his spandex pants. This always shocks fellow riders, but I've been witness to this event several times now, I still recoil some in horror, but do not look shocked anymore.
What's worse about Spandex Man is that he rides the BLS car on the red line. Many commuters, myself included, pick what car to ride on based on where they need to exit. In order to exit the train closest to the 1rst street escalators at Union Station one needs to board the first car on the red line train. It turns out most people that work at the BLS think this way and so the first car on the red line turns in to the stage of one of my favorite games, "Guess the BLSer." It's as simple as you think it is, scan the car and guess who else works at the BLS, sometimes it's easy, other times it's surprising, often it's embarrassing as you cross 1rst Street and the freak you were watching on the train crosses right in front of you and pulls out his security badge.
These are my regulars. While some are unsavory, they populate my life and keep my company. It makes me wonder if I'm somebody else's regular. What have they named me? How do they describe me to their friends?