I ride the bus home everyday after work. I dread the trip, the bus is usually packed and there is rarely a seat to be had. The thing that irritates me most of all is the fact that the trip home is so boring. I have been riding this same bus everyday for nearly two years and have every single stop memorized. I can even calculate with precision the time in between each stop.
I boarded the bus yesterday like I always have, dollar bill in hand, sore feet, and squished between two or three other people anxious to get on and get home. Once on, I noticed a cluster of empty seats toward the back of the bus. I squeezed my way through the other tired passengers clinging to the silver metal bars to keep from falling in the likely event that the bus will make a sudden stop and everyone would be thrust forward like human dominoes. As I wedged closer to the empty seats, I could hear two riders talking very loudly. Usually, those with the unfortunate luck to get stuck in the back of the bus have to speak at full volume in order to be heard over the clamor of the bus engine. As I neared the one remaining seat I could hear that these two were not trying to project over a noisy engine, there was aggression in their voices. Once I jammed myself into the seat next to the massive screaming woman, much to my consternation, I knew I should have just stood at the front of the bus.
"I grew up in the projects, Bitch!," she foamed to a young man sprawled against the blue bus seat while her seven inch tall curly hairy rocked on top of her head. A frail elderly woman turned around stunned and glared at me as if I had made the confession. I blushed and sheepishly looked up at the mass of quivering hair directly above the clinched jaw layered with a five-o'clock shadow as if to say "It was she."
The reclining man retorted, "I ain't got no problem with gay people, but you came up in here giving me the eye. Why you got to be like that? You a nasty bitch!" I felt somewhat relieved after he explained that it wasn't all gay people he was going to cut, just the bearded lady next to me. I tried to sink down into my seat optimistic that I would be unnoticed, which is pretty unlikely when one is sitting next to a six-foot tall fuming drag queen.
"East Berkeley Street," the automated voice called over the bus speakers. I became even more restless, only two more stops and I would be home.
"I'll call all the gay dudes I know and have them meet me up at Dudley Station to whoop your trick ass," the lounging man snarled.
"You call your fags baby," the drag queen shrieked. "All you and your fags gonna do is make Miss Eva wet!" I sat there appalled at not only her vulgar expletive, but the sheer biological impossibility of that occurring.
I boarded the bus yesterday like I always have, dollar bill in hand, sore feet, and squished between two or three other people anxious to get on and get home. Once on, I noticed a cluster of empty seats toward the back of the bus. I squeezed my way through the other tired passengers clinging to the silver metal bars to keep from falling in the likely event that the bus will make a sudden stop and everyone would be thrust forward like human dominoes. As I wedged closer to the empty seats, I could hear two riders talking very loudly. Usually, those with the unfortunate luck to get stuck in the back of the bus have to speak at full volume in order to be heard over the clamor of the bus engine. As I neared the one remaining seat I could hear that these two were not trying to project over a noisy engine, there was aggression in their voices. Once I jammed myself into the seat next to the massive screaming woman, much to my consternation, I knew I should have just stood at the front of the bus.
"I grew up in the projects, Bitch!," she foamed to a young man sprawled against the blue bus seat while her seven inch tall curly hairy rocked on top of her head. A frail elderly woman turned around stunned and glared at me as if I had made the confession. I blushed and sheepishly looked up at the mass of quivering hair directly above the clinched jaw layered with a five-o'clock shadow as if to say "It was she."
The reclining man retorted, "I ain't got no problem with gay people, but you came up in here giving me the eye. Why you got to be like that? You a nasty bitch!" I felt somewhat relieved after he explained that it wasn't all gay people he was going to cut, just the bearded lady next to me. I tried to sink down into my seat optimistic that I would be unnoticed, which is pretty unlikely when one is sitting next to a six-foot tall fuming drag queen.
"East Berkeley Street," the automated voice called over the bus speakers. I became even more restless, only two more stops and I would be home.
"I'll call all the gay dudes I know and have them meet me up at Dudley Station to whoop your trick ass," the lounging man snarled.
"You call your fags baby," the drag queen shrieked. "All you and your fags gonna do is make Miss Eva wet!" I sat there appalled at not only her vulgar expletive, but the sheer biological impossibility of that occurring.
The drag queen then straightened her wig with her massive manicured hands, curled her lip, and cooed very sweetly, "I'll call my boys and my husband and they are gonna heat on you something fierce baby." I imagined two rival gangs of toned and coifed men, like in West Side Story, dancing threateningly toward one another. Just as I began to enjoy my little fantasy, "Worcester Square," chimed the automated voice. I gathered my things, took one last look at Miss Eva, and continued on my way home.
CJM, signing off....
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