fear and loathing of divorce

it was lincoln public schools's 1985 winter break.  already disadvantaged by poor english and being of color in snow white nebraska, my mother was spending this normally festive time alone.  in one of many common but strange twists divorce proceedings take, the parent that "wins" joint custody weekdays, already relegated to most of the responsibility and little of the fun of child-rearing, gives up holidays.  so there i was, in my father's tan/gold ford station wagon, making the seemingly endless journey to his brother's and my five cousins' house in texas, cutting through kansas and oklahoma too fast to stop and look for twisters, but not so fast dwight eisenhower's memorial would be passed up.

The Cornhusker Lone Star Express, my dad's 1976 Ford Gran Torino wagon

despite being alone in a cold house, i'm certain my mother had the thermostat set to 60F or lower.  one other cruel twist of divorce proceedings is that the honor of monthly mortgage payments is considered an asset.  while my mother could live in the house and technically owned it, the salary of a single mother whose only previous work in english was managing a restaurant simply could not sustain the expense of it.  we eventually moved out, but not before every trick in the book was employed in an attempt to hang on.  while slightly uncomfortable, stretching a dollar became kind of a fun game, one that led my mother to actually use the city bus stop in front of our house that my father had only spoke of using.

we later found out much of the time we thought my mom was alone, she had actually hopped on a greyhound bus and gone to visit her brother and his family in the chicago area.  though she wanted to keep it a secret, she underestimated just how deeply every aspect of her life could be infected by inquisitive children.  when we'd call on the weekends, there was no answer.  if we had forgotten something and went home to get it, she was not there.  once, i asked about greyhound when a commercial came on during a football game.  my mom simply knew too much.  whether out of necessity or admiration, i would follow in her footsteps years later.

no one thinks twice about a college kid hopping a bus to get home for holidays or occasional weekend visits.  students are poor and young folks are always up for an adventure.  on those trips, covering four states in just a few hours as can only be done in new england, i came to understand why people thought it odd my mom had taken such buses voluntarily and so often.  the stations in new haven, bridgeport and numerous villages and towns in between looked like they were recently converted homeless shelters.  looking at such places certainly conjured imaginary danger in every dark corner.  only seasoned riders realized the subterfuge.

beggars, homeless, vagrants, transients and scum have no business harassing bus riders.  forcefully repossessing a rider's ticket to white plains was hardly worth the risk of jail time.  wallets and purses usually hold little money and bus riders are always collected in packs, scattering once a trip is over, but well aware that defense of each other was imperative to survival.  also, it's no secret that many riders are graduates of the hard knock life themselves, too hardened to be afraid and too savvy to fall for tricks.

despite having navigated this web of danger numerous times on the east coast, i bought into car culture when i moved to l.a.  public transportation, the story goes, gets you nowhere you want to go and even when it does, does so slowly.  it's difficult to reconcile this with equally horrific tales of traffic.  was l.a. packed so dense people simply couldn't move?  had smog fried everyone's brains?  or were people just so charismatic and magnetic, no one ever wanted to move away from others quickly?

answering none of these questions, i purchased a bmw.  the acceleration was excellent.  the handling exquisite.  really shallow women in the bad parts of town flocked to it.  and after a year of driving the damn thing, i no longer cared.  like every other vehicle i ever dared call my own, it needed to be fed, groomed, cared for, registered, insured and housed.

somewhere between those long rides in my dad's station wagon, my mom' frugality and frequent greyhounding and my own experience owning a car, i really had a very difficult time seeing what all the fuss was about over driving.  every freedom it affords comes with shackles of a different variety.  each second saved, another spent wondering what the fucker in front of you means by leaving their left blinker on.  every relationship nurtured in private leaving ten public sociological observations unmade.  driving has its place, but i'll be damned if i fall for its entrapment blindly.

casanova failure

like a scene from bad bus rides everywhere, a man gets on and sits down next to the finest lady on the bus.  immediately, his moves and her parries are pretty self-evident.  he's obviously complimenting her and she replies with gratitude devoid of excitement.  of course, his car is in the shop and he's just tryin to find a way to san pedro.  to my surprise, he doesn't mention what kind of car it is (mercedes seems to be the popular pick, even in cadillacville).

unfortunately, he makes a mistake next that many an aspiring casanova has.  he tries to exert his authoritative knowledge.  "the 550 only go to 37th now.  it used to go all the way to west l.a."

"doesn't the expo line pick up some of that route?" she asks, no stranger to the routes herself.

"it don't go to half the places the 550 used to." he then proceeds to name about half a dozen intersections that the old route used to service, but are no longer serviced by the expo line.

"maybe there weren't enough riders on the 550," she suggests.

"oh there were lots of riders, especially during the day."

do you see the mistake yet?  in my mind, i'm thinking, "that is one broke-down, broke-ass hooptie if you feel confident enough to throw out bus ridership patterns.  are you sure you ever drive?  you sure do know a lot about that 550."

she continues to thwart his advances.  i notice she's tellin some lies of her own to prevent any stalking.  she said she only takes the bus once in a while to visit a friend.  we ride this bus together most days, but i understand the need to fib, especially to a stranger.

finally, the clincher.  "i have a boyfiend.  we've been together three years."  i don't know whether to believe her or not.

it's my stop so i don't get to see he continuation or potential end of this conversation.  i'd put money on a little "what's your man got to do with me?  i'm not tryin to hear that see," being thrown around.

shopping bags

one very obvious difference as you travel between different parts of this fair city of angels is the shopping bags. there are some parts of town where plastic top valu bags are the norm.  other parts of town see a lot more paper trader joe's bags.  and somehow, forever xxi transcends territorial boundaries.  i'm sure there's something very deep to be said about demographics, geography and class regarding the what, when and where of shopping bags, but one fairly obvious one (at least once you know to look for it) that was pointed out to me by a close friend can be illustrated by these pictures.

as nice as it would be to believe that this woman is returning home from her trip to restoration hardware, i'm quite certain this just isn't the case.  we're actually travelling towards the nearest restoration hardware and it's miles and miles away.  returning something perhaps?  at the time of day this picture was taken, there's no way to reach restoration hardware via train before closing.  here, we have another similar story with victoria's secret.

now i'm not suggesting that victoria's secret is not within the reach of this woman nor that any such shopping she might do there is unexpected.  however, i have been to the lingerie shop enough to know that when they pack the bag, it's never that full and they always top the bag with frilly-looking tissue.  also, as it just so happens, while i wasn't taking this photo, i noticed the contents of the bag were definitely much more suggestive of a hoodie than anything victoria's secret sells.

nothing says "i love my farmer's market" quite like a plastic bottle of coke.  well, nothing but a bag with "i love my farmer's market" actually printed on it anyway.

now, why all these shopping bags from places most likely not shopped at?  the nearest i can tell is domestic help is returning home with some gifts from residents of helped domicile.  after all, just because you're paying someone slave wages to clean up after you and look after your offspring or step-offspring doesn't mean you aren't racked with guilt over it.  the feeling is easily assuaged by sending the help home with a little not-good-enough-for-me-but-you-might-find-it-nice care package once in a while.  "here, put it in this restoration hardware bag i happen to have lying around.  that way, you can feel fancy on the train without blowing the thousands of dollars i made my husband spend on doorknobs and drawer pulls."

paper clothes, pt 2

remember them folks in paper clothes i wrote about a while back?  well, had a couple of em ask me for directions.  should come as no surprise they were heading to county* to pick up their belongings.  though i knew that before they said anything to me, i didn't wanna be insulting or presumptuous.  after going through the formalities of the directions, the shaved-head latino said, "just finished in jail.  first time.  73 days.  dui."  it's like he had to make this introduction every day for, well, 73 days.  though he was latino, his accent almost sounded more eastern european.  "it's crazy, man.  but, man, i was so drunk.  it's messed up, you know.  it's the system too.  i'm from venice."  for you non-angelenos, that's the venice that gives venice beach it's name, not the venice in italy.  "professional musician.  i play the drums.  where are you from?"  after i answer, he continues, "you ever come to venice, look for the drums. you find me."

he turns to his friend, who looks a bit like a shorter, less intimidating version of nick sobotka from the wire.  "you go to the valley after?"

"i'm supposed to.  sort all that out when i get my phone.  right now, i'm too pissed to even think about it."

"man, you got to have money and brains.  i been in venice thirty years.  i got all kind of money.  but you need brains.  you have money and no brains, you lose everything."  truer words were never said.

i look down the train after we've been riding a bit.  the shaved-head guy is doing chin-ups on the upper hand rail.  seventy three days'll build up some funny habits, won't it?


* -- that would be l.a. county jail for those of you not up on incarceration lingo.

irony of ... iron (or maybe aluminum)

i've seen a lot of crazy contraptions associated with bikes.  there are those trailers for taking your kids.  there are those weird things that go on in front instead that are almost as big as the kid-size trailers.  there was the candyland bike.  and this guy (not really a contraption, but still associated with a bike).  and then, there's the thing pictured below.

that there is an oxygen tank strapped to a bike with a hose feeding the nostrils of the rider.  what's the irony here?  well, what if this person were playing a pick-up game of basketball with the tank on his back?  i guess i just don't associate heightened physical activity with someone who needs an oxygen tank.  and there's the delicate issue of what happens in an accident and the tank regulator gets knocked off.

nonetheless, you gotta hand it to this guy.  he'll use a lot less oxygen biking to the hospital (trust me, he was on his way there) than walking.

people talkin to themselves

back in boston, there used to be this guy who would wear parts of a military uniform, cap and jacket most of the time depending on the weather.  he would march on occasion, but mostly just gave speeches.  the words he used didn't match any language i recognized, mostly hissing and spitting sounds.  we called him "fidel."

he was never waiting for a bus or anything.  that was just his spot, where he was allowed to talk to his following of zero without harassment.  i've come across a decent number of people who talk to themselves.  but for the first time one of them was talking scientology, in rhythm no less.  it was kind of like that talk-sing crap that bone, thugs n harmony passed along to destiny's child.

                                    GEE
ron__          sci       tah  luh  
     hub  bard      en


                                    GEE
ron__          sci       tah  luh  
     hub  bard      en


his sermon wasn't much.  mostly just said a lot of people's names over and over again.  i didn't recognize most of them.  i think trump might've been in there.

freddie freeloader's aunt

"he know i don't use no dove soap*.  when he done, it look like five people done used my soap.  he knew i been drinkin.  why he gotta use my last clean towel?!  he come, use my soap, my water, eat my food.  can't even bring his own damn food.  he know i been drinkin, he bring a full plate of restaurant food all up in here.  don't bring none for me."

epilog
"she did something fucked up and cleared all my food stamps."

* -- thanks, steve nash and shaquille o'neal.

no comment

i know the title says "no comment," but here's my comment.  i had a totally different motivation for taking this picture, but my favorite part is that i captured a funyun looking like a joint.

here on the range i belong

driftin along with the tumblin' tumblweed.

comedy troupe

this may look like your average evening on the blue line.  however, several elements in the picture (and one that isn't) conspired to make it more memorable than that.  we'll kick things off with the unpictured element.

mini-scene 1: one of them amateur vendors gets on to try to sell christmas lights.  i ain't never seen this particular product on the train, but there they were, vended by santa himself.  he tripped over the handle bars of the bike you see the wheel of and yelled out "fumble!"  after he regained his footing, "that was almost an interception."

mini-scene 2: even though the comedy routine seemed like it was over, santa noticed the bandaged toe.  "damn!!  what'd you do to yo toe!?"
    "i kicked someone."
    "i hope you kicked the shit out of," pause as he noticed the kid with the dreads, "that sumbitch."
    "he was tryin' to sell me christmas lights," to which dreadboy and his two ladies busted out laughing.  they were laughing like hyenas for most of the train ride, so this laugh being their loudest says something.

mini-scene 3: santa steps on the guy's foot.  "dude, that's fucked up," replies toe-man.

mini-scene 4: the hyena on the left of dreadboy says in her best dork voice, "these black people.  they're just so ignorant."  she's only kind of hiding the fact that she's looking straight at the white boy in front of her.  hyena on the right is laughing even harder than she did in mini-scene 2.  hyena left continues, "he probably got his glasses at the end of his nose."  more laughter.  "i wish i had some glasses just so i could put em on the end of my nose."  even more laughter.  i usually try to play it cool, but i was having a hard time stifling laughter at this point.

mini-scene 5: dreadboy does his best michael jackson.  dave chappelle once said,"boy's eight years old.  he don't remember thriller."  i don't think this boy was born when dave made that statement.

doll scalper on the loose

"what've we got, dex?"

"doll scalp.  usually there's a head since the hair is actually sewn in, so that should narrow down the victim search.  pink tips on the hair are definitely not blood, so the scalper really knew what they were doing.  now that i look at it, so did the colorist.  do you know how hard it is to do this shade of pink?"

"where's the body?"

"there are no chips of plastic or ceramic nearby.  the actual removal was done elsewhere.  it's possible the scalp was dumped here."

"but isn't it, like, a trophy or something?  why would someone go to all this trouble of carefully removing the hair and just leave it here?"

"high-traffic area.  the perp could have dropped it while fighting foot traffic or was forced to dump it when authorities were hot on their tail.  or maybe it was given to an infant as a pacifier.  sometimes they throw things unexpectedly."

"alright, we'll check the security cameras and canvas the area.  someone had to see something."

later...

"ahhhhhhhh, my precious.  reunited at last.  those police will never understand our relationship.  you must never go running off like that again."

wide open

a guy facin me is lookin slightly to my right.  "you alright?" he asks someone that clearly isn't me.  my eyes were in my book and i figured if anything was wrong, i'd find out about it soon enough.

after readin another sentence or two, i notice the guy is still lookin.  a lady sitting near him is also lookin off to my right.  "hello," she half-says/half-asks.  i think maybe they're lookin past my row, so i look behind me.  it becomes obvious they're lookin at the guy across the aisle from me.

"is he breathing?  i don't think he's breathing," someone behind me says.  i notice the guy everyone's lookin at has a catatonic look on his face, eyes glazed over.  his shoulders don't look like they're movin up and down at all, makin me wonder if the guy behind me is right.

the woman snaps her fingers in front of his face.  "hello," she asks again.

finally, i reach across the aisle and nudge the guy on his shoulder.  he gives a start, looks over at me as everyone else breathes a sigh of relief and says, "huh?  what?" not having any idea what's going on.

"people were concerned about you," i say.

"i was just sleepin," he says.

"your eyes were open," someone blurts out.

"yeah, my brothers used to fuck with me while i was sleepin so i learned how to keep my eyes open."

"half the train thought you were dead."

"nah.  what stop is this?"

p.s.  i thought this'd be the most noteworthy thing to happen on the blue line this day, but later, four girls get on and start detailing lesbian views on stripping, porn and the specific criteria for "stickin me with that shit."

science week: physics, csudh style

when i think of “blue line rider,” i don’t usually think of a particle physicist*.  however, i did stumble my way into a nice conversation with john price, head of the physics department of cal state dominguez hills.  i overheard him talking on the red line and though i’m not enough of a physicist to call myself one, i recognize when it’s the topic of conversation.  though john appeared to be getting ready to do some work (headphones in, linux netbook out) when i approached him on the blue line, he seemed happy to spread the gospel of science.

as department head, i’m guessing he spends a lot more time trying to get funding than he would like and it seemed to show in our conversation.  the main obstacles he faces revolve around a general lack of interest in science.  there’s this idea that if there isn’t some immediate use for the results of research, it’s not worth doing.  because of this, when he’s asked what will come of his work, he somewhat flippantly answers “nothing at all.”  he goes on to explain that of course he expects some good of it, but he can’t say what right now.  by way of example, he notes that the first tv wasn’t commercially available until the 1940s, but the physics required to build those tvs was understood in the 1860s.  obviously, no commercial venture can wait that long, so basic research such as his is highly dependent on government funding, where opposing science seems to be fashionable nowadays (at least at the federal level here in the states).

john’s actual work is to improve our understanding of the proton. he's an experimentalist, someone who puts the theoretical physicists' models to the test. he uses a particle accelerator to smash really small things at really high speeds. from these collisions, all sorts of interesting things can be learned, if only you can detect them.  he showed me a diagram of one detector he’s built, as well as one of a newer one he’s working on.  the particles he’s looking for tend to decay very rapidly and over a very short distance, so the new one has its detectors much closer to the actual collision.  it's worth noting that the detector itself is three stories tall.  even though the detectors are very close, they need a lot of equipment behind them in order to get meaningful data.

with the frustration of funding and the joy of discovery comes some fun  some tv shows actually hire consultants to validate the scientific principles in their shows.  john knows the guy “the big bang theory” hired (recently interviewed at wired) and actually noticed some mistakes.  in return, his friend got them to put john’s program’s name in the background of one episode.

unfortunately (at least for the conversation), we arrived at my stop.  i thought about how this enlightening conversation only came about as a result of pure chance, the result of people being in close proximity to one another.  if i knew anything about quantum mechanics, i’m sure a very poetic conclusion about stochastic behavior could be written here.  as it is, i’ll just say i felt like i hit my own personal lottery that day.

* -- john tells me he’s actually a nuclear physicist because he studies the nucleus of atoms, specifically the proton.  i chose to say “particle physicist” mainly to avoid alarmist language, but also because john himself said “same thing.”

talons

i kept meaning to do a follow-up to my first fashion post, but never really got around to it.  well, seeing the following on the train forced me to.

i couldn't easily get a picture of the other foot, but i noticed upon glancing back while getting off at my stop that it featured the same pedicure.  i'm pretty sure this lady couldn't fly.  but if she could, i'm sure these nails would have served the need for hunting small rodents better than, say, my toenails.  what's weird is i don't think these nails were even in the top three reasons she drew people's attention.

first, her bikini top (or strapless bra, i couldn't really tell) was covering up her topside more than her clothes.  second, she absolutely reeked of pot (i was informed later it was relatively high-grade, but i can't attest to that).  third, every 30 seconds or so, she just burst into laughter, the kind whose spasms send out guttural "g" sounds.

i know she probably made most people uncomfortable, but i have a hard time believing any of them enjoy themselves that much over the course of an entire week.  so, who's the big winner?

some policy wonkery

the brookings institution just put out this transit analysis.  it's worth a read if the general topic of transit policy interests you.  i know for most, it don't, so the main takeaways are there are a lot of transit riders in l.a., they are well-served by the various transit agencies in both coverage and service frequency and the average commute-time could use some improvement.  the details follow.

l.a. ain't really known for its transit commuters.  and yet, "Metro areas with a high number of transit commuters, such as Los Angeles, Honolulu, and Philadelphia, also stand out for having small per capita carbon emissions due to transportation compared with more car-dependent areas such as Nashville and Oklahoma City."  it's official, l.a. has lots of transit users.  i'd want some independent verification of the carbon emissions thing, but l.a. is no longer in the "more car-dependent" category.

as the city that created sprawl, there's a pretty strong notion that it's hard to find a bus or train stop in l.a., but that notion is just plain wrong.  "Transit coverage is highest in Western metro areas such as Honolulu and Los Angeles, and lowest in Southern metro areas such as Chattanooga and Greenville."  in fact, l.a. ranks second in both coverage and service frequency.  in the above map (click to enlarge), dark blue means there is coverage, light blue means there isn't.  i had to break it up by income (low on the left, high on the right) to avoid a solid mass of dark blue.  mid income isn't shown, so not all areas are represented.

what l.a. could improve upon, however, is trip time.  out of 100 metro areas, l.a.'s 25.6% is ranked 69th in percentage of jobs accessible in under 90 minutes.  in the above map (click to enlarge), dark areas can be reached within 30 minutes and light areas can be reached in under 90 minutes.  everything in between takes from 30-75 minutes. the left map uses downtown as a starting location (gray box, union station roughly).  the right uses the westside as a starting location (santa monica and the 405 roughly).

despite l.a.'s 69th place ranking, based on sheer number of jobs the average worker has access to within a 90 minute transit commute, l.a. is second.  in other words, a lot of jobs are really far, but there is no shortage of jobs that are really close.  also, despite l.a.'s seemingly low ranking, "Notably, Chicago and Philadelphia—home to two of the oldest and best-known transit networks nationwide—rank lower on job access via transit than Houston and Los Angeles, both of which are known as auto-dominated metro areas."

one last little tidbit from the report: "Only one of 64 transit agencies surveyed recently reported that it has not had to reduce service or increase fares in response to larger fiscal challenges."  there's been a lot of noise about mta doing this, but it seems budgetary pressures are being felt all around.

one last little tidbit for the nerds: "To make the full range of data behind this report more accessible and actionable, Brookings developed an online tool that enables users to examine the detailed results of this analysis."  i found it at http://www.brookings.edu/metro/jobs_and_transit/Map.aspx, where i generated all of the maps in this post.

of course, this is just one study and its particular idiosyncrasies are going to bias the conclusions some way, some how.  one addition i would like to see is "transit effectiveness," something along the lines of the ratio of average commute time driving alone in a car to average commute time on transit.  nonetheless, it's good to have some validation that the l.a. transit system actually performs as well as i've been telling everyone.

i know i've had a lot of news/policy posts of late, crowding out my usual "things you probably wouldn't see anywhere but the train" posts.  but i've got a soft spot for abstract policy discussions, so all i can do is hope the wonkery didn't put too many people to sleep.

streets of laredo

al (probably not his real name).  sort of a barney rubble type.
ed (also not likely his real name).  imagine the lazy drawl of tommy chong mixed with the intensity of danny trejo.

al: this train's goin to union station.

ed: union station, more like the streets of laredo.  we were drinkin our coffee there, man, we weren't doin nuthin and they still come and mess with us.  we weren't doin nuthin, man.

al: when we get off, i gotta go.

ed: i know whachoo mean, man.  sometimes you gotta go so bad, it'll make you wanna jump off the aleutian islands.  once i had to go so bad at the santa anita track, i just found a garbage can.  some guy started starin.  i said, "why don't you just join me, you sunuva bitch!"  man, when you're walkin down the street and you got no money, just stick out your thumb.  you never know what'll happen.

slight lull in conversation.

al: trash can's full.

ed: man, she found thirty grand in a trash bag once.  can you believe that?  in a trash bag, man.

al and ed get off the train, taking their sun-baked skin and wifebeaters with them.

blind blue-line beggar

regular blue-line riders know from the title alone who i'm talking about.  for the rest of you, yes, it's true that there are lots of beggars on the blue-line, particularly during evening prime-time.  there really aren't that many blind people though (i know, i just wrote about one, but believe me, it's pretty rare).  even if that weren't the case, this particular blind beggar on the blue-line is noteworthy.  for starters, he's shameless and loud during his announcement.  it doesn't come across as annoying like other shameless, loud activities though because he keeps it pretty brief.  also, the announcement is bilingual.  so, if anyone is trying to learn english or spanish, they get their own personal rosetta stone.  but most noteworthy is that this man will take out his fake eyeballs to prove that he's blind.  usually, he'll say something like, "folks, i'm really blind.  i'm not faking it," then pop out an ojo de plastico and continue, "there are plastic and i really need help.  today is twofer tuesday at popeye's."

i write just to let all his friends know that he is still alive.  he's a bit skinnier than the last time i saw him and he has quite a bit more white hair.  however, his clothes did look cleaner than usual and while he still didn't smell great, it wasn't as bad as in the past.

"personal" space

usually, the sandals-with-socks types on the gold line aren't the type to instigate.  of course, they usually don't have a du-rag on nor do they usually sport red with white polka-dot manicures either.  they do usually sit in the handicapped/elderly seats, though, which is where this particular sandals-with-socks was sitting.

since i sit all day at work, sometimes i stand for the trip even though seats are open.  i grab one of them poles you're supposed to grab when you're standing, you know, for the safety of yourself and others.  it happens to be one that sandals-with-socks was sitting next to.  i didn't think anything unusual was going on, just staring out the windows like i usually do.  suddenly, a "PFFFFTTT!!" forceful enough to send spit-icles into the air comes from sandals-with-socks, accompanied by some arm-waving.

"what's the problem?" i ask.

"uuhh!" she exclaims, throwing her arms down in frustration.

"what's the problem?" i ask again, thinking something was genuinely wrong, like something had spilled out of my bag onto her.

"could you BACK UP!?" she tells me.  this was just plain odd to me because with the exception of my arm and hand, the rest of my body was at least half a foot, if not a full foot from the pole i was grabbing.

so, i say, "i gotta hold on to one of these to make sure i don't fall."

"go hold that one over there," she tells me.

"but then i'm in that guy's space," i said, not thinking such a simple statement would actually end the conversation.

she's on her phone with someone and says, "can you see what i'm dealing with?"  up to this point, i couldn't hear a thing she was saying, so i guess she was raising her voice.  she got so frustrated with the fact that i wouldn't move, she said, "fine.  i'll get the next train," which she did.

another gentleman was getting off.  he smiled at me and said, "good luck."

thinking back on it, that was a weird thing to say, but the look on his face and his body language was positive, so i just said, "thanks."

socks-with-sandals said something, emphasizing one of the words with a point directed at me.  i honestly couldn't hear her, so i just smiled, waved and said, "have a nice day," as the doors closed.

i got some congratulations about taking the high road from the guy who was sitting next to the pole that socks-with-sandals would've preferred for me to stand next to.  i'm grateful that people appreciated what i did, but i can't help thinking something went gravely wrong in socks-with-sandals' life and she could use some real help.

hs kids, cleanin house

i'm on my way to my usual ride home one night.  right when i walk up to the stop, i knew something was up.  there were kids all up and down the platform when usually there’s just a handful of adults.  listening to some of them, i found out they’d been waiting 20 minutes.  i’ve never had to wait more than 5 minutes this time of day.  then it happens, three buses show up, one right after the other, all pulling into the stop at the same time.  as you can imagine, all three buses were packed, especially the first one, which i managed to squeeze my way onto.

while that was slightly aggravating, that was nothing compared to what happened a couple of stops later.  a guy who i’ll call “herb” got on.  herb was perfectly ambulatory and was even hauling some roller luggage with him — not the kind people take on trips, but the kind that substitutes for a backpack.  the bus driver tells herb he needs to step behind the yellow line.  herb yells out, “i’m handicapped,” and whips out an id.  the driver just says, “i can’t leave until you step behind the line.”  herb repeats, “i’m handicapped,” followed by, “someone needs to give up their seat for me.”  i’m not sure if the driver was skeptical or lazy, maybe both, but he looks at herb and says, “if you can get someone out of their seat, go ahead, but you need to step behind the yellow line.”  herb continues his outcry, “isn’t it your job as the driver to get me a seat.  i’m handicapped!!”  the driver, knowing how close the buses behind him were tells herb, “why don’t you just wait for the next bus?”  herb rails, “why should i have to?”

there’s no doubt that handicapped folks have their rights and when there is a genuine violation of those rights, they need to stand up for themselves.  but when the bus was already filled to capacity, when you’re holding up everyone three busfuls of people and you screamin “handicapped” when everyone saw you walk with your own two feet down the platform onto the bus, you gotta know people thinkin you an asshole.  not herb.

finally, herb pushes his way through the crowd in front.  a kid who was doing his homework starts to pack his stuff away so he can get up and give herb a seat.  before he’s finished, herb shoves his card into this kids face and says, “i’m handicapped.  i need to sit down.”  the kid is somewhat startled and replies, “i’m movin right now.  just cuz you handicapped don’t mean i’m retarded.”

then herb gets a phone call.  “yeah, the trip was great.  we got about 20 stores involved.  i must’ve made half a million in sales.”  usually a phone call on the bus is no big deal.  usually, the person taking the call isn’t talking so loud that the people at the very back of the elongated bus are rolling their eyes.  “let’s celebrate together.  we can go to the beach, go to dinner, the whole thing.  c’mon, you can’t spare a day for me?!  ohh, okay, alright. okay, have a nice weekend.”

then herb pulls out a card.  tapping someone in the arm, he says, “can you give this to that girl over there?  excuse me, have you ever modeled?  i think you’d do great.  i’m a fashion designer.”  this is when riding on a bus full of high school kids pays off.  one of them chirps in an unidentifiable, high voice, “liar.”  the girl tries to take it in stride.  she says, “thank you.”  herb presses on, “i do high-end…suits.  have you ever modeled?”  one of the kids chirps, “bullshit.”  the girl says, “when i was younger.  it’s not really the right audience here for me,” before pulling out, “so, why are you on the bus?”  herb shrugged his shoulders emphatically and said, “y’know, the judge said.  can i ask you where you live?”  the kids chimed in with, “stalker.  rapist.”  the girl had clearly been hearing the kids the whole time and finally stumbled a bit with a long pause before saying, “i’d rather not say.”  trying to make lemonade out of lemons again, herb says, “it’s not like that.  i’m married…happily married.”  i’m not sure even he believes that one.

rick james. back from the dead?