…the Sock Speaks…
the Love Bus Revisited…
It seems like only yesterday that it was deemed the paragon of hook-ups, a rolling den of mutual attraction on wheels, a mobile singles bar, commuter style.
The Love Bus.
It didn’t take too long for my fellow riders to out the Chicago Tribune reporter who penned this fantasy (April 13, 2006) — the very next day, many told me they were on the bus with him and it was business as usual.
In our world, during Rush Hour, that would be:
— minimum eye contact (AM: eyes still full of sleepers. PM: mascara has migrated)
— lack of conversation (AM: I am not awake. PM: my blood sugar is so low I have NOT the energy to utter a single word)
–no desire for bodily contact (AM: don’t touch my shower. PM: I need a shower).
Since the opposite of the above are necessary for a successful tryst, my busmates assured me with word and deed that the Trib guy must’ve been trippin’ in a way that did not include being a real passenger with the rest of us.
It actually goes more like this.
I get on the bus, maybe 4th in a line of 7 – 8 at my stop. Because I’m lame and hate the new plastic bus cards (mine goes to zero balance all by itself) I put CASH into the fare box, taking an extra 4 seconds and potentially pissing off the people behind me. My stop is early on in the route and I usually get a seat and pull out my Sock-in-Progress and get to it Right Away.
It’s Happy Hour and my Sock is my Martini, shaken not stirred.
One Friday night as I’m joyfully rolling along, my revelry is disturbed by not only the press of flesh of overcrowding but two loud passengers. They’ve arrived through the Back Door of the Bus (the thug entrance — avoid the farebox when it’s so crowded the driver can’t see you) and the female passenger tells the male to move move move. She’s spotted Solid Gold; an empty two-seater and ain’t no stoppin’ her now.
Amazingly, he sits down right next to her and even though they appear to not know each other, they start fussing and fighting right from the onset like a couple who’s been dreadfully hitched for a lifetime. He politely delivers such rejoinders as: “You’re Really Rude, you know.” She counters with: “You ugly.”
Back and forth this goes for about two stops and I find myself knitting faster and faster the more vicious and furious the insults become. We are packed in there closer than sardines there is no where to go we gotta get home! So our Low Blood Sugar reduces their pathetic tirade into a hideous low-level drone. No one says or does anything.
He says, “You didn’t have to pull out the Box Cutter now.”
And even as I’m glancing over my shoulder, I’m UP and getting out of my seat, telling the guy next to me to move move move much in the way She Told Him when She got on because She’s right behind me, yellow-handled blade held up shoulder height, arm pulled back ready to deliver.
The packed people part like the living sea and amazingly again no one does anything but give the two Fussers room. Somehow we give them enough space (maybe an arm’s length?) for us to safely stand and finish the ride because just a threat is not enough to stampede the herd in the big city.
The Love Bus.
The Sock has been treating me to some Taxi lately. It likes that It matches the Passenger Bill of Rights posted on all seats.