Some Funny Things Happened On The Way To My Grave

It's been a long time since I've had to deal with any weirdos on my bus ride to or from work. My last apartment location had me riding a bus that had several unfortunate stops, that while alone were not of much consequence, but combined together to created a virtual pool of which strange occurrences where born...often daily. Some of the scenic highlights on my daily bus ride were: a drug abuse clinic for the homeless, two seedy bars, a park frequented by vagrants & drug dealers, a soup kitchen, an employment office for the homeless and of course the Police station. Now matter how much one might claim to sympathies or empathize with the folks who might frequent these locales, goodwill usually dissolves quickly when the guy sitting across from you smells like he pissed himself, and only stops hitting on a female passenger long enough to vomit in his own hat (true story). But it's been almost 3 years since I've had to deal with those types and this morning was much more lightheartedly amusing, than it was repulsive.

I was so deeply engrossed in my current book, Dawkins - The Greatest Show On Earth, that at first I didn't even realize I was being spoken to.

Lady: Sir? Hello sir? Do you go to school? What are you studying? Are you in school?
Me: Me? Oh. No, I'm not in school just reading for fun.

She is probably mid to late thirties, very thin looking, possibly emaciated under her sweater. She had a tight, bony face, pale as all hell, with a wide & thin mouth...like Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler. She was wearing a multicolored beany pulled down over her ears, with a pair of pink headphones emblazoned with nuclear symbols, over that. Of note, is the fact that the head phone cord had been severed at the plastic...she was wearing them for decoration. She like me, was also in a window seat, directly across the isle from mine, but she never moved closer while speaking, requiring me to constantly lean over to hear better. Every time she spoke, her sentence would start strong then trail off to almost unintelligible, as if she were walking away. So keep in mind almost everything she says, I had to ask her to repeat at least once.

As I turned back to my book...

Lady: What is that?
Me: What is what?
Lady: That book. What is it?
Me: It's The Greatest Show on Earth; it's Richard Dawkins' newest on evolution.
Lady: What's it about? I just read a book and I really liked it. I was cool cause my friend wrote it.

I suppress my desire to answer the question "What is it about?" and tell her that's cool and then she sits quietly and I turn back to my book for about one half of a sentence.

Lady: It's this guy I know. He was in a band and played music and got real high all the time and stuff and then he wrote about it. I think it's called American Junkie.
Me: Oh? What's his name?
Lady: Tom I think? Tommmmm....something. I just know him as Tom.
Me: Well that's cool. I have friends trying to be published, good to hear someone is achieving it.

She's quiet again, so I turn back to my book and again get only about one sentence read before...

Lady: It's so great that he actually got his writing published and stuff. I think everyone should write their own book.
Me: I'm sure there are lots of stories untold out there. Some just don't have it in them to write I guess.
Lady: Sorry if I'm keeping you from reading, I'm just feeling good ya know?
Me: No worries.

Again she goes quiet. This time I'm allowed about half a paragraph before I hear her mumbling, I'm hoping she's talking to herself, so I ignore her and keep reading for a moment or two before she clearly raises her voice.

Lady: Excuse me. Sir? Sir? Are you from here?
Me: No. Not originally.
Lady: When was the last time you were here in Seattle?
Me: I live here, I'm just not from...
Lady: Where do you come from?
Me: I...ah...mostly the NW...Portland area mainly.
Lady: I've lived here since I was three. A lot of construction, so much is changed and changin'. Wow [looking out the window at construction site], seems like that lot has been empty forever.

I should note it was demolished only about a month ago, but I don't mention it. She goes quiet yet again. I turn to my book, but I'm anxious. It's like I don't want to start reading again, cause I know I'm just going to be disappointed again when I don't get to finish a line...I can feel the next interrupt coming.

Lady: Didn't there used to be an AM/PM on this corner?

It is here that with a deep sigh, I place my bookmark and put my book away into my backpack. Attempting to read will obviously be futile.

Me: Uh...They are widening the road. I dunno about an AM/PM...there was a gas station just down a block.
Lady: Probably a Shell...they're always Shell's. So much money being spent building stuff. Didn't that President build a bunch of stuff here? What's the President's name?
Me: Uh, president of what?
Lady: The President. You know, the President of the United....the U.S. The U.S. our President.
Me [dumbfounded]: Uh...Obama?
Lady: Yeah...no. Not him. How about the second guy, the vice guy, the President Vice?
Me: Oh. Biden. Joe Biden.
Lady: No that's not it...isn't it Quaid? I thought it was like Dan Quaid. I'm sure I saw it on those little signs all over peoples yards.
Me: You don't mean Dan Quayle, do you?
Lady: Oh I mean Paul Allen, he spent a bunch on buildings here, isn't he President Vice?

My look of shock must be apparent as she continues.

Lady: Like I know who the President is, but all the other guys like the vice and the people who make laws; I don't know about who they are. Is that weird I don't know their names?
Me: It's unfortunately all too normal.
Lady [not catching the insult]: Oh good.

My stop is here and I tell her to have a pleasant day. I smile to myself as I step off, because I can hear her striking up a conversation with the person who filled my seat.

Lady: Don't you just love riding the bus? I love riding the bus, you meet so many interesting people.

Thank goodness it's Friday.


P.S. When I got back to my desk, I looked up the book she mentioned. American Junkie is indeed recently published by a Seattle-ite named Tom Hansen.

There is nothing worse than spending extra time planning ahead, only to have it all unravel before you at the last minute.

I have recently taken up cycling to work. Now your first inclination may be to ask me, "Why would you self impose such punishment?" Well, the hysterical laughter induced by my massive head inside such a tiny helmet aside, I actually discovered it was faster than just taking the bus alone. You see, living off the beach across the lake from Seattlle has it's perks, but convenient public transportation pick-up times is not one of them.

My work day starts at 7:30 AM, my bus leaves at 6:30 AM and my walk to the bus stop is exactly 12 minutes (18 with a hangover). My alarm goes off at 5:30 each morning. I get up promptly at 5:40am right after hitting snooze twice. Then, in the sort of daze you expect to see from crash survivors, the following occurs: I stretch, pee, trim my beard, shower, dry, brush my teeth, clean my ears, apply deodorant, attempt to stylishly mess-up my hair, dress, do a "spectacles, testicles, wallet & cell phone check, then rush out the door after realizing I should have left two minutes earlier.

I determined that it wasn't my streamlined routine that needed changing, it was my method of transport after I left the house that needed adjustment...namely I wanted a Segway. But understanding that a Segway might actually bring more ridicule by the general public than my bike helmet, I decided on a bicycle instead. I am able to wake and leave later, place my bike on the bus rack, bus into Seattle, get off at the first city stop and bike the rest of the way to my work. This method only works because my office has a locker room and showers, specifically to encourage people like me into believing that cyclers are cool and not just easy targets for inner city road rage. It also is made easy by me packing my backpack the night before with all the accouterments necessary for showering and changing on the flip side (cyclers can use cool lingo like that, don't try it at home).

So morning rolls around just after buying my new favorite tech toy, the Palm Pre, at this point I have had the phone maybe 36 hours or so. My backpack on, I tuck my new phone into the shoulder strap case, you know, in case I need to take a call while riding one handed (don't try that at home either). And this is where the proverbial shit hits the fan. Flat tire. Well not flat, just too low to ride. Keys come back out, run inside grab the pump; pump it up. No worries, plenty of time to spare since I'm riding my bike. I peddle down to the bus stop hop off and with a few mins to spare till the bus is due I decide to check out Fark.com on my new Pre.

As I slide it open, I notice a message indicator, I tap the screen pull up what looks like an advertisement email. But hey, it's got this really cool look to it, the edges of the screen look like 3-D burnt parchment. Cool. I delete it. Uh oh, that "effect" is on the inbox too, and every other screen! Ahhhhhh! You know when you push hard on your flat-screen monitor and it gets that warped look around your finger? Well apparently the pocket I had the new phone in against my shoulder was a little too tight. Including the weight from the pack pulling it against me,the phone's screen was acting like it had been between the hands of the Hulk during a fierce session of praying. I'm freaking out about my phone and the fact that if I can get a replacement, it probably won't be for awhile since they are sold out everywhere.

But I sigh and try to calm down, because the bus is here. But not for long. You see, the bus is here...just not for me, because the frakkin' bike rack is full! When is the rack ever full? I have never seen this before. Like a ten dollar carnival psychic, the bus driver reads my thoughts and comments on how rare the possibility. Thanks for your two cents, fat lady bus driver, but your math skills are lacking when predicting the probability of my having a bad day. Signs point to yes, bitch. So it's back on the bike and home for the car.

I will fast forward a bit now. Past fighting in the Roman chariot race that is the eastside-to-Seattle daily commute, to arriving at the parking garage at my office. I hustle inside to the locker room, set down my bag and go to open my locker. A image forms in my mind. A vision of my locker key, sharing a keyring with my bike lock key, inside the pouch attached to my bike, back at my apartment. My toiletry bag and towel are inside the locker. I did not shower Sunday, so I'm overdue. Screw it.

I strip down hit the shower and start scrubbing myself as best as possible with bare hands. This ain't working. It's like trying to clean a pig with a wet wipe, err...rather without a wet wipe...whatever. Suddenly a flash of inspiration. I hop out the shower, dripping wet and shuffle over to the sink, lean over and start pumping away at the provided hand soap dispenser.