Commuting from this particular route for the past two months has found me in uncompromising situations… From sitting across from a harried father wiping the putrid, seeping diarrhea from his sleeping toddler’s person on a stifling, hot, un-air conditioned bus, driven by a grumpy bus driving bitch, to last week’s showcase show down, where a drunken antagonist assumed the Karate Kid position, ready to take down featuring a long, braided, pig-tailed Snoop Dogg circa 1993 wanna-be; on a late, crowded, bus taking afternoon, ‘pon me returning from a gig I scored at yet another non-profit. … Once again I was in the middle… I was worried… I wasn’t pleased.

Scene: On a crowded bus, replete with standees… a stumbling man, with questionable dental hygiene plops down directly across from me, and spies low-budget Snoop Dogg antagonist. My assumption is that there’s bad blood between the two, because the older, unsteady gentleman immediately goes into hysterics…

“I’ll fuck you up nukka! You’re just a punk in a vest!! I’ll fuck you up! You don’t know me!!!! You ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ PUNK IN A VEST!!”

Snoop Dogg Dude: “Nukka, shut the fuck up! I’ll fuck you up!!” So forth and so on…

Unsteady Pop-Pop: “You’re just a punk in a vest!! Don’t let these gray hairs fool you nukka!! You gon’ respect me!! I’ll kill yo’ whole generation bitch!!! You don’t know me nukka!”

This is all occurring whilst I’m inconveniently seated in the middle. Unsteady  Pop-Pop stands up, steps to Snoop Dogg dude, and is ready to fight. I, behind a mask of large, dark shades, curse underneath my breath… because if these two men go at it, chances are, I’ll be a victim of any and all residual punches and kicks due to where I”m seated.

The bus driver, A cute, petite, middle-aged Puerto Rican woman pleads, “Guys! Sit down please!! No fighting on the bus! I need you to sit down! You’re disturbing the other passengers!!”

The two adversaries are unmoved by the bus driver’s plea and continue to assume their fighting stances.

Finally, a tired woman, undoubtedly exasperated from work, demands that the bus driver pull over at a non-stop so that she can get off, because she is NOT feeling this shit and is not the one; “Bus Driver! Can you pleeeease… Just let me off NOW. I’m am NOT dealing with this!!  I wanna get off!!” she demands. Commiserating, the bus driver obliges… while nervously watching the two men in the bus’ rear view mirror.

Me? My knees start anxiously bouncing up and down. Clutching my handbag and pretend pearls, I’m registering where, exactly, my pepper spray is nestled, in case I become an innocent bystander once these two dudes start swinging. Fortunately, Unsteady Pop-Pop, who was not feeling the “punk in the vest” live and in effect from my generation, demands that the bus driver lets him off the Hate Ride, between Albany and Vine, because he feels his ire rising to epic proportions!

Without hesitation, she obliges him… all is right in the world of Connecticut Public Transportation.

I stop feeling around for my pepper spray and exhale …

Cross-posted at http://coffeerhetoric.blogspot.com/2010/08/bus-tales-punk-in-vest.html

Epic Beard Man’s name is Thomas Bruso, a 67-year-old Vietnam veteran who has already been featured on youtube with his taising by police at an Oakland A’s game. While it’s not clear exactly what happened just from watching the video, it is apparent in the follow-up interview below that Bruso is troubled.

He screamed, ‘DAMN SYCOPATHIC BUS DRIVERS” over and over until the driver heard. I could feel him breathing down my neck and watching my every move. He shouted across the bus about how much he hated norwich and how he was beaten up, stabbed and mugged all in one night. How the police never came for about 2 hours and that they get paid too much so they but drugs, (errr, ok) I didn’t like him, one bit. But i carried on reading my book. On the way back, i happily sat on my own reading, whilst over hearing conversations from other people.

Originally posted on http://rubysmith.co.cc/

The most interesting segment was when I was taking my family back from Culver City after seeing fireworks one Fourth of July. A prostitute took a cell call, and in a loud voice interviewed a new prospective client and then set up a meeting, clearly stating her address and apartment number within earshot of 40 or 50 people, many of whom understood at least a little English.

I endured the two-hour-and-fifteen-minute ride from the county line to downtown Miami a couple times. To keep the young folk from ripping up the seats, they provide sitting accomodations made of hard plastic. I had to abandon the practice due to a lack of meat on my own seat. I walked around as if crippled for a week after the last such trip. South Florida also has a commuter train called the Tri-Rail, as it serves three counties. My son and I found nowhere to purchase tickets one Sunday, and were socked with a $50 fine when the rent-a-cop went through the train verifying payment. Two weeks later, we won a vacation in the Orlando area from the agency that runs the line. The prize included two nights in a very nice suite hotel and eight admission tickets to our choice of the major theme parks. But getting the 220 miles to the theme park area was our problem, as was food, which was priced 60-100% above that available in town…25 miles away. I told my mother I wasn’t sure I could afford to win many more contests.

Still, when it works out, the bus is a wonderful way to get around. My biggest problem has always been that you can get just about anywhere in the early evening, but there’s no way to get home until the next morning in many cases.

As I walk across the snowy median on my way to the bus stop I see that i’ll be sharing the wait with a guy with problems. He’s wearing two hooded sweatshirts, the hoods tightly sinched around his skinny withering face, tired Levis, even more tired Reeboks. He’s doing that jump thing you do when you are cold. We exchange greetings like good people do when they are sharing a bus stop kiosk during a snowstorm, during the Holiday season.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi… Its cold, huh.”

“Its Wintertime in Colorado.”

“No Shit! I spent the day shoveling snow for Labor Ready. I made $28.”

He seems happy about this statement. He’s happy to have earned $28 from the rent-a-drunk day labor place a few blocks away. I ask a sideways question. “You worked all day and made $28?”

“No, I started around noon.”

He blows into his hands and does the jumping thing again.

“WHere are your gloves?” I ask.

“I don’t have any, they were stolen.” He goes on about how all of his warm clothes got stolen, Carrhardts… on and on he goes… He has problems… I look at his bare hands again, then I look at my hands. I see suede and what I think might be called Flock. I don’t know, its fuzzy red shit that lines cheap suede gloves. I think for a second about how i’ve got lots of other gloves waiting at home.

“Here you are man. You need these more that I do.” I say as I hand him my stupid cheap suede and red flock lined gloves.

He puts the left on on first and exclaimes from underneath two cotton sweatshirt hoods, “They are WARM!” before his hand gets all the way in. He extends his still bare right hand for a shake and says. “Thank you. My name is Jim.” His hand is indeed cold.

If Jim decides to go back to Ready Labor tomorrow to earn another $28 shoveling snow; $28 that he obviously needs to help solve his problems, he’ll at least have some gloves to wear. He will have one less problem.

Sometimes I like to ride the transit bus.

A bus tale from Colorado Springs, that hopefully contains at least one misspelling or gramatical error. This is done on purpose, to confuse and/or anger Satan.

Whenever I have a chance to talk to a passenger who seems to be a candidate for one of these the always say they’ve never heard of them. Don’t know if the price of these has gone up with today’s general fare increase [I have today off] but they would still be a bargain for anyone who rides frequently enough.

This concerns an exchange between:
KM, a dispatcher who was at heart an anarchist, with only a grade school education but more street smarts than anybody around. At the time he was a union steward.

FJ, an assistant garage manager with some years of experience and ambitions to move up in the company.

CH, a newly minted assistant manager who had been a dispatcher, meaning he took his union problems to KM.

At Snelling Garage FJ and CH shared an office. This appealed to CH because FJ had become his hero since he had been promoted to management. On the day in question KM was irritated with FJ, and after stating his complaint added, ‘that’s why the drivers think you’re a jerk.’

FJ replied dismissively, ‘I don’t think the drivers think I’m a jerk.’

Turning to CH, KM asked, ‘how many times when you were a clerk did you call me and tell me what a jerk FJ is.’

CH could only mumble something about he hadn’t called that many times.