A long time ago, I decided that whenever possible, I would not only create my own reality, but I would do my best to convince others that it was substantive.
Welcome to Friday.
Join me, won’t you, as we trudge to the bus stop. Ah. There’s the guy wearing the helmet with the little light on it, there goes the Minneapolis School Systems Pipefitters Machine Shop van, and here comes the bus.
Right on time.
And the future? That’s on time, too, if you, like me, believe that it can be discerned by my iPod’s shuffled playlist.
Burn by The Cure
Tommy Gun by The Clash
Ahh… The Name is Bootsy, Baby by Bootsy Collins
Dance Like a Monkey by New York Dolls
Ballroom Blitz by Sweet
Shadrach by Beastie Boys
Psychotic Reaction by The Count Five
And there you have it. Schizophrenic and bound to burn more calories than normal. I’m likin’ it already.
So I’ve been listening in on the bus again.
It’s an art. Don’t let the iPod fool you. Sure it looks like I’m listening to music; but if it looks like you’re having an interesting time of it, I just may turn it off and eavesdrop…
Hey! It’s a public space, for cryin’ out loud! If you don’t want everyone to hear about how that stain got on your living room couch, I suggest you lower your voice.
Which brings me to yesterday morning. Come sit by me on the bus, where we keep our eyes ahead and our ears on scan…
It’s 6:24 a.m. Still dark. The bus is occupied by heavy-lidded, blanket-coated folk who want nothing more than to be back in their beds.
That’s how it normally is. Except for when it’s summer, of course, when the bus is occupied by heavy-lidded, cotton-clad folk who want nothing more than to be at the beach.
But back to our bus. And it is our bus, iddin it; and look how cozy we are! So cozy, in fact, that some of us have forgotten that we’re not alone…
The man directly in front of me, a young, skinny man in a heavy jacket and a Minnesota Viking hat is speaking loudly enough that I can hear him over my Earbuds.
You’re gonna be that loud? It’s on, fella!
I reach into my bag and turn my iPod off.
“Dryer sheets? Yeah – what? No, dryer sheets!”
“What? You know they are! What are you doing? What do you mean, where do you put them? You put them in the dryer!”
Brief pause whilst the Vikings fan briefly loses it.
“Because they’re dryer sheets! They go in the dryer! That’s why they call them “dryer sheets”! Where do you think you’d put them, woman?!”
That was enough for me, and I went back to listening to The Black Keys.
Me, I’m torn between concern for someone who has called someone during their commute to ask about the dryer sheets, and pity for someone who has been called, during their commute, to explain where the dryer sheet goes.
I may have to give up listening in for a bit. It’s gonna give me wrinkles.
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