In Duluth, generally, the further east you go, the more ’90210′ it gets. So as we coast eastward along Superior St I’m guessing we are in for a quiet ride on this DTA bus. Guess again. A young black kid with the most ghetto fabulous, sparkling white North Face ski jacket that I’ve ever seen hops on. I’m jealous. He’s talking a mile a minute on his cell phone to (I’m assuming) someone who cares enough about his sexual encounters with girls whose names he can’t remember, but hey, he’s homeless, she had a place, they both wanted to get laid and I suppose that’s what passes for flirting/romance/foreplay in this heterosexual interracial wasteland. This kid is full of shit and obviously puffing his feathers so everyone can hear how this ‘motherfucking white bitch’ whupped his ass and even sunk her teeth into his chest bad enough that I could see he had gauze taped all over his chest. Why wasn’t he heading downtown to urgent care to get this looked at? I make a lot of assumptions on the bus…some wrong, but there’s a definite unspoken code especially this far north that some people come to Duluth the same way people escaped to Canada or Alaska: they’re running from something bad, they’re not giving their real name to nobody, which means any medical problem or crime against them can’t get reported. They’ll just have to live with it…that’s the price of this temporary freedom…risks of sickness, violence, and homelessness. So this kid goes on and on about ‘this white bitch’ who, by description, I’m guessing is about 15 (this kid is 25 at least). I glance to my left at the 70-something woman who has a look on her face that’s just beyond description. We make eye contact like we were both witnesses to some bad comedy act.

Finally the bus hits my ‘hood on Woodland Avenue, and I’m getting off…the bus. You know, I’m young, I’m cute, dare say I’m a catch, yet being gay here is very liberating…I feel like a unicorn. There might be a variety of races and classes here, but gays do not live here. You don’t have dates. You definitely never get laid. The closest it gets is time spent bitching about how much Minnesota sucks on gay.com. But if I don’t get a sex life, well, hell…at least all I have to do is hop on any Duluth Transit Authority bus and hear how the other 96% (aka straight society) lives. Can I just say this? I feel bad for straight girls and I hope you’re educating your guys. They don’t appear to understand the basics (wearing a clean pair of underwear twice a week, brushing teeth, wondering how many girls they’ve knocked up rather than knowing)…

Cue in Alice Deejay’s ‘Better off Alone’…!

Anyway, I politely answer her questions but I don’t really look at her or attempt to engage in a conversation. But she keeps at it and eventually I warm up a little and ask her about her self. We end up having a really long conversation on the bus and I totally miss my stop, ending up at the end of the line. But she was cute! And I got her number. I don’t think a girl has ever picked me up on a bus before. Oh, Minneapolis.

Suddenly, I noticed that two young women were pointing at me and whispering, so I smiled at them. One of them said in heavily accented English, “You are reading Russian book.”

I nodded.

“He is my favorite author,” said the other.

They turned out to be young Russians who were attending a summer ESL course at the U. They were fascinated by the idea of a popular Russian author being available in English translation and they wanted to know where I had gotten it. They told me that they would take a copy home to show their friends back in Russia.

These are the kinds of chance encounters that make riding the bus more fun than driving.

Just this morning, there were two offenders within arms reach of me. Both individuals were taking up an entire double seat as the bus continued to fill to capacity. I was seated in the back on one of the side benches. A man boarded close to downtown and because of the rude seat hoggers, he had only one seat option, which happened to be next to me on the side seats. Frequent bus riders probably know how snug these side benches can be, especially if you are wedged in right between the poles. Not so lovely. So while this man and I snuggled up, both of us clutching our bags in our laps so as to take up as little room possible, the seat two seat hoggers happily stretched out in their personal row.

I have seen this injustice occur on many occasions, even at times when the bus is so packed that even standing room is scarce. One person sits comfortably, taking up two seats while everyone else is packed in like sardines.

I admit, I do nothing to protest (unless quietly fuming and shooting dirty looks at the offending party counts). Like me, most people are too polite to question it and I’m not sure it would really be worth it to speak up and make a scene. I’m curious if others have see this occur. Are these people oblivious or just inconsiderate? Or could there actually be a legitimate reason for seat hogging?

In my mind I picturing either a grody old man drinking a Schlitz Bull Ice 40 or a grody old man drinking a Mickey’s 40. I normally avoid looking at anyone on the bus, but I needed to see if my assumptions were correct.

Often times when I want to stare at someone I’ll pretend I’m looking past them at something else. In this case there was no subtle way about it since the belcher was sitting in the back of the bus. So I said what the hell and just turned around to blatantly stare.

I was shocked to see that it was not a grody dude at all, but a woman, in her mid 40′s probably. She was dressed in a business suit. I was unable to contain myself and made a noise that is best described as a mixture between ‘huh?’ and a short laugh. She looked a bit embarrassed but didn’t say anything. I turned back around and decided that next time I will just stick with the picture in my head.

Another time I almost sat on some free floating gherkins. Come to think of it, I think my friend once told me about riding next to an afro (not a person with an afro, but just an afro.)

Sigh, I love the bus. I am not a Minneapolis expat, but I remember fondly my many trips on the bus…the sound of air compressing as the doors open.

Well one of these bit players in the lengthy production entitled “Julie’s Life” is a guy called Colored Suit Man (or rather, a guy called that by my sister and I without his knowledge or consent). If you ride the 6, you’ve probably seen him. Everyday he wears a different, brightly colored suit. He’s got one in red, green, pink, white, yellow, burgundy – all full suits, all with matching ties, all freaking fantastic. I know he’s seen me a million times, and I conjecture with confidence that he has no idea who I am. But every once in a while, on a particularly gloomy Minnesota day, this dude will make it just a little bit brighter – literally. Thanks, Colored Suit Man.