Bookman Speaks!

I have a confession to make. Though I am happily married, I have a bit of a crush on the Bookman.

The Bookman is one of the morning regulars — I almost never see him on the evening bus, though I get off work at 4:30 and perhaps he’s an 8-to-5er instead. But every morning, he gets on my bus and sits in the back, usually directly across from me.

He immediately takes out a book and begins to read. And while that’s fairly normal behavior on a bus, I confess I took notice the first time I saw him do this, because the book he had with him was one I had read myself and didn’t think anybody else had ever heard of. Since then, I’ve made a point of sneaking a look at his book every day, and, in the process, have made a discovery: it’s my contention that the Bookman only reads when he’s on the bus.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just an observation I find interesting for some reason.

Why do I think this? Because the Bookman gets through about a book every 10 days to 2 weeks, and never any faster than that. This seems to me to rule out a lot of extracurricular reading. Unless he saves one book for the bus and reads another one when he gets home? Perhaps he saves the paperbacks for the bus, and reads hefty tomes in hardback when he’s in bed at night?

Anyone for Tolstoy?

The Bookman is married, and he has an earring and a grizzled gray beard that I am especially fond of. But my favorite part about the Bookman is that he’s gigantic. He’s like someone from Brobdingnag, really. Not fat — just extremely tall and broad-shouldered with large hands and large arms and large everything else. I love tall people. I’m a tall people. Tall people rule. And I also love the fact he kind of lumbers when he walks, and that people often have to shift a bit to the side when he sits in between them. The Bookman seems larger than life and looks exceedingly gentle, intelligent, and kind. This is my favorite type of older man.

The other day, I had my first verbal encounter with the Bookman, after weeks and weeks spent sitting across from him and clandestinely scoping out the insides of his bag every time he removed his book from it (yes, I am a disgusting bag snoop). He hadn’t been able to get a seat that morning, and was standing by the back door (note: not in the stairwell, thank god, as that makes me bananas). It was time for me to get off, and I had to squeeze by him, and as I did, he turned to me and made a joke (which I won’t repeat, as I’m trying to make sure no one I talk about here can recognize themselves). I misheard the joke, as I was listening to the Ramones on my MP3 player, which I guess I’d better quit doing whenever there’s a chance someone might say something interesting in my direction. And the upshot of this mishear was that I didn’t laugh at the Bookman’s joke, but instead just responded, “Okay, no problem!”

He gave me a quizzical look, which I didn’t understand until later when the joke was finally filtered correctly through my brain. But the next day, he caught my eye and smiled in my direction. I took this to mean that he either thinks I’m crazy and thus had better stay on my good side, lest I suddenly snap and lunge for his throat. Or else it means he thinks I’m cute in a quirky, nonsensical kind of way, and that he’s rather fond of that quality in young, strange women he encounters on the bus.

Either way, he had a nice smile, and I hope to see it again soon.

Hey, Nose Pickah!

The guy sitting catty-corner to me on the bus this morning was, of all things, picking his nose. Not just a subtle scratch (“I wasn’t going to pick my nose, I was going to thump him!” — name that movie) or a casual quick dig for a boog that was driving him bananas. This guy spent a good ten minutes rooting around in each nostril, elbows-deep, like his fingers were French sows that knew that somewhere, deep in those crevasses, there were truffles to be had.

He’d grope around in there for a second or five, then drop his hand to his knee and casually rub his fingers together to drop the detritus onto the bus floor. From the way he did this latter move, I could tell he was actually attempting to be subtle about it — at least he wasn’t flicking the stuff clear across the aisle or, worse yet, tucking it behind his ear for later. But what I found particularly amusing about the whole thing was that, out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was closing his eyes every time he brought his hand up for the pick. This is something I call “The Bugblatter Beast of Traal” mentality, wherein you think that if you can’t see others, they can’t see you (see Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for details on the BBoT, and don’t forget to pack your towel, you hoopy frood).

My cat does this too, though you may want to note here that she has a brain the size of a peanut. In her case, what she does is hide by sticking her head under the bed, leaving the rest of her body out in plain sight. Whenever I walk by and see this, I cannot resist sneaking up and tugging gently on her tail. “Whaaa…?” her shocked face will exclaim as her head whips out from under cover and whirls in my direction. “How did you FIND me? I was INVISIBLE!”

Now, if only there were a comparable action I could’ve performed on the Nose Pickah, because clearly someone needed to clue him in to the fact he wasn’t being nearly as clandestine as he seemed to think he was. However, of course, he had no tail on which I could gently tug, and besides, it’s considered bad form on the bus to grab at anybody’s backside for any reason, ridiculously deserved or not. Also, he was actually sitting on said backside anyway. I suppose I could’ve leaned over and flicked him on the forehead, but, well, I didn’t think of that in time, I guess.

Dear Nose Pickah: just because you can’t see me watching you systematically mine your nostrils for gold does not actually mean I’m NOT watching you systematically mine your nostrils for gold. By the end of the ten minutes, I had run through so many emotions I was pretty much over being grossed out and had moved smoothly into a state of utter amusement. Luckily, before I could start tittering behind my sleeve (I’m so immature), someone came and sat down next to him and that made him quit. He probably thought, and rightly so, that said someone would not appreciate having boogers dropped so closely to their own knees and feet. It was a full bus on a rainy morning, after all — not a hotbed of tolerance, patience, or joy, typically.

Anyway, I will be steering clear of Nose Pickah for a while, I think. It’s not that I think there’s anything inherently bad about picking your nose — haven’t we all done this at one time or another? I don’t even really have a problem with eating boogers, though it’s not a delicacy I have a taste for myself. I guess it’s more germophobia than anything else. Well, that and the image of one of his truffles permanently attached to the bottom of my shoe for the rest of the day. Now that’s gross. No, like, really gross, now that I think about it.

Okay, so, to sum up:

1. Do not pick your nose on the bus

2. Do not think that closing your eyes means I can’t see you

3. Keep your truffles to yourself

4. Do not put anything in your nose smaller than your elbow, including your elbow

5. See above, re: not picking your nose on the bus

The End.

Meditation Guy

This morning, I was struck, as I often am, by the perpetual calm of Meditation Guy. Meditation Guy is a regular on my morning bus, and he gets on before I do. He always sits in the back of the bus. He has a beard. He usually wears a hat. He’s probably around sixty years old. I think he’s married — he wears a ring, anyway.

He’s called Meditation Guy (by me, that is) because he spends the entire bus ride with his iPod headphones in his ears, his eyes closed, and his hands folded together in his lap. No matter what is going on around him, Meditation Guy never opens his eyes. Never. Our bus could crash into a telephone pole, and I fully believe Meditation Guy would sit there with nary a flinch until the ambulance crew came to wheel him away. He’s just always there, always still, always exuding this almost disturbing level of calm throughout the whole ride.

Today, I saw the whites of Meditation Guy’s eyes for the first time ever. He opened them slightly to throw a look of compassion to the fellow sitting next to him, who was talking very animatedly about the fact rotten ref calls cost the Seattle Seahawks the Super Bowl yesterday. Actually, pretty much everyone on the bus threw a look of compassion at that guy at some point during his tirade, as he was clearly in a great deal of distress over the matter, and even those of us who didn’t care one way or another about the Super Bowl still know what it’s like when your favorite team gets shafted by a bunch of zebras with whistles. But, somehow, coming from Meditation Guy, that look was the most meaningful for us all. It also had the bonus effect of answering one of my most-pressing questions: Is Meditation Guy aware of his surroundings AT ALL? Actually two of my most-pressing questions: Is Meditation Guy aware of his surroundings at all AND Is Meditation Guy listening to everything being said around him?

Answers: yes, and yes.

Figuring out how he knows when it’s time to get off the bus without opening his eyes, however, I suspect may require a thorough reading of the I Ching.

Nice Lady

Nice Lady is a daily rider on my morning bus. She, by turns, either irritates or pleases me enormously. It all depends on how tired I happen to be at 7:35am when she gets on board and sits down. If I’m in a good mood, I’m happy to be seated near Nice Lady, where I can listen to her talk to fellow passengers and offer to hold the bags of anybody who ends up having to stand in the aisle when there are no seats left (Nice Lady’s favorite thing to do, despite the fact no one ever takes her up on the offer). On mornings when I’m tired, however, I try to get a seat in the back of the bus instead, preferably next to Sullen Teenager, who is far less likely to try to engage me in conversation.

This morning, Nice Lady cracked a relatively funny joke and everybody laughed out loud, including me. Even Sullen Teenager, who is usually tuned out in the back seat with headphones blasting, cracked a little smile. Was it a joke worthy of an LOL? Probably not. However, it was one of those odd mornings when everybody on the bus was in an exceedingly and inexplicable good mood. I can never figure these mornings out — they are as likely to occur on a Monday as any other day, a day when you’d think most people would be ill-tempered. And today, we were all abounce with joy, despite the fact we were crammed to the gills with twice the usual number of passengers, due to an earlier bus that went MIA.

In the afternoons, a crammed bus is, in short, a recipe for disaster. You want to know what Road Rage is truly like? Get on my single-length afternoon bus on a rainy evening and watch the competition for Most Emotive Scowl begin. But for some reason, a crowded bus in the morning is usually no big thing. Maybe it’s because nobody is in a hurry to get to work, the way they are in the evenings to get home. Maybe it’s because we’re all fresh from our breakfasts and coffee pots, instead of exhausted from hours spent at our desks. I don’t know. All I know is that mornings on the bus like this morning always leave me slightly confused and pleased. It’s not a bad way to start a day, in other words. I don’t get it. But I think I kinda like it.

p.s. Confidential to Nice Lady: Thanks for offering to hold my bag this morning. If not for the fact it weighed about 87 pounds and I was afraid it would crush you, I would’ve taken you up on the offer, just to make your day.

The Guy I Hated on the Bus This Morning

You know what one of my big pet peeves on the bus is? It’s the guy who, when the bus hits “standing room only” status, thinks it’s okay for him to stand in the stairwell for the back door. Sure, this is a comfortable place to be — you can lean back against the sides of the stairwell there and can keep your balance pretty easily. I get it. I really do. And, actually, this is an okay place to stand as long as you are being HYPER-aware of the passengers around you — especially the ones, like me, who are about to get off the bus. But you can’t just plant yourself in there and not pay attention. Not unless you want to incur my wrath, Rude Boy.

When the little *ding* rings, the one that means someone wants the next stop, you need to move yourself out of the way so that I can use that stairwell. You need to do it well in advance of that stop, so that you do not delay me. If the bus is really, really crowded, of course, this is going to be next to impossible because there won’t be anywhere for you to go. In that case, you are an ass for standing in the stairwell to begin with, because, well, what were you thinking would happen when someone needed to leave via that door? Were you thinking we knew some “Crouching Tiger” move that would send us gracefully flying over your head and out onto the sidewalk? Because, though I am lovely and smoothly-shaped, I am not a CGI-enhanced special effect. Much as I would sincerely love to be.

If it was the very last spot to stand on the most crowded bus in bus-crowd history, then, okay, I can see the need to stand there. In that case, however, please take note: what you need to do when it’s time for me to get off is NOT attempt to flatten yourself to make room for me to squeeze by, because there isn’t room for two people in that stairwell. And if I have to try to slink by you and your massively oversized, SUV of a backpack, I’m going to get peevish. No, what you need to do — listen up! — is GET OFF the bus, wait for me to get off myself, and then get back on and continue to occupy your ridiculous amount of space.

You, guy who was in the stairwell this morning with your iPod in your ears, your complete lack of fellow-passenger awareness, and your gigantic backpack? I hate you. And the same goes for you, guy who was standing behind him with your iPod in YOUR ears who also wasn’t paying any attention to the fact people needed to GET THE HELL OFF THE BUS. MOVE IT, PEOPLE! MOVE IT!

Thank you, and welcome to Metro Confidential. 

Introduction

I’ve been a daily bus commuter for over a decade now. You see a lot of weird, interesting, or annoying stuff on the bus. This blog is going to be about that.