I’ve developed a craving for one of those accordion buses. They’re almost twice as long as a regular bus. Think of the room...
The urge for a bigger bus came earlier this week.
The dead bolt to my front door refused to lock Monday morning for reasons it did not disclose. It took forty-five minutes of sweating, swearing, and seriously considering calling in to work “irritable” before the door was locked.
And in that time, I had dramatically missed my usual bus.
You know, you think you know a bus after riding it for eight years. You think you know the drivers, the faces of your fellow commuters. Generally speaking, the people on the 6:30 are all going to work.
A quick wash-up, a check of the bus schedule, and I now face riding the 9:20.
The folks on the 9:20 do not have the look of work about them.
Speculation as to where they were headed dressed in pajama bottoms and sleep in their eyes we shall leave to the professionals.
What is important here is that my fellow riders are loud and unconfined by societal expectations.
Let's listen in, shall we?
You see, I’m a firm believer in eavesdropping, particularly if avoiding doing so means turning up my iPod to levels likely to induce ear-bleed. The commuters I am accustomed to do not spend a lot of time on the phone, preferring to stare blankly out the window, so my listening in on this particular morning to the myriad calls going on at one time promises to be a treat.
The following conversation is actually a conglomeration of the five or six cell phone conversations that went on around me.
To get the full effect, the following is best delivered at the top of your lungs.
“Where you at? HUH? Where you at?”
As a quick aside, the phrase “where you at” is the quickest way for me to stop paying attention, but I persevere.
“Nah, nah. I be downtown in 20. Who? Wha’? Girl I can’t hear you! Speak up!”
There is a brief pause while the girl speaks up.
“What? No, he trippin’. He trippin' for real. Him and Trina/Ray-Ray/Boo/Mary Elizabeth be out at the clubs and I KNOW he ain’t tryin’ to tell me he ain’t! I’m gonna take care of my own, you hear what I’m sayin’? I’m gonna get PAID and he the one gonna pay me.”
I lose consciousness momentarily while these sentences are repeated in varying permutations.
“She best watch her back, that’s all I’m saying. I munna GIT mine, you know what I'm saying? What? No, he don’t. No he don't. NO HE DON’T! Hold on a sec, I got another call.”
She answers her other line and spends the next several minutes bringing the new person up to speed.
You know, I thought it would get interesting at some point. After all, there may have been reasons around all those stained, baggy-seated pajama bottoms. There may have even been reasons behind the wild hair, the just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-into-boots look.
But no one goes in to any of that.
And we are left hanging.
Does she get paid? Does she get hers? Do he be trippin' for real?
Happy weekend, everyone. Don't forget to come back tomorrow.