forwardAdventures in Public Transportation
by Rachel Cotton
Along the bus route that goes to my house, there is a veterans
hospital. Often times, crazies from the hospital will get onto the bus and bring the
ruckus. I find this quite amusing. The crazies can be distinguished by the following
distinct characteristics: They always sit in the seat closest to the driver, whom they
refer to by his first name, and, in a voice that can be heard throughout the entire bus,
talk to him about the things that crazies like to talk about (how their roommate once peed
on the bus) during their entire ride, which usually consists of two full cycles of
"The Route." In addition, they never feel it necessary to pay bus fare because
they know the driver so well after spending so much quality time with him; they're
regulars (affectionately dubbed "regs" by yours truly), after all. If there is
more than one "reg" on the bus at a time, they will engage in ridiculous banter
with one another (commenting that it was not reg # 1's roommate that peed on the bus, but
him), which makes for an incredibly good time. The regs are friendly, usually sober, fully
dressed, and harmless. They are not drunk and annoying.
In a city, one occasionally stumbles across the drunk
and annoying type. This type can be distinguished by the fact that they smell like alcohol
and bother people. In contrast to the harmless fun of good-natured drunks, who sing sailor
songs and the occasional "girl your booty is so round" and, most importantly,
leave people alone when they discover they are not welcome, drunk and annoying types
persist even when it is clear that their presence is unwanted and, sometimes, even feared.
It is somewhat understandable when people have feelings of hostility towards the drunk and
annoying, yet these feelings should be replaced by pity or some other worthwhile emotion
once the drunk and annoying is gone. The good-natured drunk, however, should bring about
no feelings of hostility, for he is just trying to have himself a good time.
One night on the train, I encountered a good-natured
drunk who encountered senseless hostility.
Three J-Crew suburban types, not to stereotype but to
identify, huddled in their seats across from me. Next to the feathered blonde one sat a
withered old man who was trying to talk to her. She asked him if the next stop was his
and, when he replied that it wasn't, I think she asked him to get up. He got up and
stumbled around the train singing "Joonie" over and over again, trying to engage
various passengers, none of who were receptive, in conversation. He was drunk, and his
pants, held up by a piece of twine, were falling down, revealing a lack of underwear. At
some point, a man with sweatpants rolled up to his knees, hair, short on top long in back
a la old skool Michael Bolton, with a few gold chains around his neck and a large bag of
salad in his hand, got onto the train. At around the same time, the old man was trying to
tell me how everyone was "afraid of street folk," which was a definite reality
then and there. All of the sudden, the sleazy Michael Bolton type noticed the man trying
to talk to me, nowhere near where he was sitting, and proceeded to harass him:
"You talking to me? HEY, are you fuckin with me because I'll fuck
you up. We can get off the train at the next stop, and I'll beat your ass. I'll beat you
so bad that the cops will have to come and stop me."
The old man, completely oblivious, just said: "Hey, are you
talking to me?" over and over again, innocently.
"Hey I'm not kidding. I will fuck you up right now. Let's go.
Let's get off this train, and I'll beat your ass."
"Hhheyyy, are you talking to me?"
Suddenly, some suburban do-gooder interrupted sleaze Bolton "Sir,
he is with us. Hey you can come talk to us, " directed at the fun-loving old timer.
Sleaze, paying no heed to suburbia, Sleazed: "No, I'm serious.
Let's get off right here, and I'll beat your ass. Are you fuckin with me?"
Suburbia interrupted again:"Excuse me sir?" and when Sleaze
turned around,: "no not you. Sir," pointing to the old man, "come over here
and talk to us."
At this point, the old man, not at all interested in suburbia, said
something like: "Hey, Kenmore, this is my stop anyway!" and proceeded to
disembark. He was just excited for a night on the town and staggered off the train.
I became a little nervous when sleaze followed him. I became a lot
disgusted when sleaze, from two stairs up in the train, kicked the old man in the head and
got off the train to slap around a withered old drunk and show everyone how macho he was.
The old man, dazed and confused in more than one sense, sluggishly attempted to defend
himself, to no avail. Sleaze slapped him across the face a few times and trotted back onto
the rear of the train. A job well done. He sat on the floor, looking really toughguy,
listening to his toughguy Walkman and holding his toughguy bag of salad, and everyone on
the train glared at him with disgust. None of the disgusted, however, had done anything to
help the old man. Machismo sucks.