Wednesday, February 27, 2013

The Wheels On The Bus

A comment on a popular social network site made me think about all of my hours spent on buses and trains and car pools and van. I have used mass transportation all over the world and I came to realize that people who use mass transport are always the same. It doesn't matter if you are in Europe, the South or in megalopolis areas like New York. We all fall into certain categories with very few, if any, exceptions.

First, and it wouldn't be a bus ride without this fine example, you have the Talker.

The Talker generally sits right behind the driver, leaning forward so that his mouth is in the closest possible proximity to the driver's ear. He rambles on and on about one of two things; Politics of which he knows nothing but thinks he knows everything, or sports, of which he knows just enough to be annoying and thinks he knows everything. The bus stops and starts, doors open and close, people talk to the driver yet none of this stops the Talker from droning on and on and on. On occasion, an Antagonist will have boarded the bus, sitting as far away from the Talker as possible and interjects a few statements that he knows will irritate the Talker no end and make sure that the ramble never ceases. At first the other passengers are always happy that the Antagonist irritates the Talker as badly as he is irritating them. If this goes on for more than a stop or two, however, the other passengers either put on headphones or yell "shut UP!" or get off 6 miles early because walking in the heat, rain, snow, chill has got to be less painful that the two annoying creatures going at each other in full voice.

Similar to the Talker is the Self Conversationalist. In the good old days people gave the Self Conversationalist wide berth because it could only mean one thing, i.e. CRAZY. A city bus is a confined space and being next to a verified lunatic is not pleasant for someone just tying to shlep their groceries home from the store. With the advent of cell phones and Blue Tooth devices the Self Conversationalist is now often confused with the Rude Asshole. I actually feel bad for the crazy people who now must wonder is the Rude Asshole hearing the same voices they are? Does everyone now hear voices? While the Self Conservationists voices are talking murder and mayhem the Rude Assholes voices seem to be saying nothing at all, just listening to the constant ramble about doctors visits and evil relatives, sort of like the bus driver. Are the voices simply passed away Talkers who feel they must leave their mouths close to someones ear and ramble on and on about sports and politics for eternity?

The Tired Mom is a fixture too. Aged looking women anywhere from 16 to 56 surrounded by wide eyed children who don't want to sit together take up several rows of seats. One is always crying, one is always sniffling and coughing, one is asking questions of the Somnolent Drunk (Another fixture. Could also be Jittery Addict, closely related and more and more common) next to them about why he isn't shaven, hey mister you smell funny, and why do your hands shake like that. Sometimes Tired Mom totally ignores her brood, glad to have them in an enclosed moving space and therefore confined giving her a short respite from constant vigilance. Sometimes Tired Mom looks on in pride as they terrorize the other passengers. Sometimes Tired Mom yells at the Self Conversationalist for terrifying her offspring but usually Tired Mom just dozes in and out and thinks about everything she has to do once she gets home and wishes, how she wishes, that she had a damn car.

What I like to call Thug Lite is next in this line of characters. Thug Lite would be really really scary except, well lets face it, he has to ride a bus. That means he isn't old enough to drive yet (Thug Lite Junior) or isn't a good enough drug dealer or burglar to afford a car. In other words he is often caught because while many people think public transportation brings a bad element to their neighborhood, it is a bad element who face thirty stops and starts on their omnibus getaway. Thug Lite is also often holding up their britches so they don't fall off in front of people they are trying to frighten. Seriously? How scary is someone who can't run without their pants sliding down and the whole world seeing their Mickey Mouse drawers? Thug Lite tend to travel in small herds and take up the back seat because even on mass transport the wanna be cool, bad kids sit in the back of the bus.

Thrill Seekers are an annoying fact for those of us that ride every day. Thrill Seekers ride a bus once, maybe twice in their life. They ride to say they have, they ride to give the kids a life lesson, they ride to prove that they are the same as Somnolent Drunk, Jittery Addict or Thug Lite, no better, no worse, all God's children after all. Thrill Seekers always look excited, sweaty palmed, red faced, benevolent shaky smiles as they clutch each other, sitting three to a bench seat and avoid eye contact with everyone except Tired Mom's kids. They ride a few stops and then hop off, relief coming off of them like a sickly sweet perfume as they hail a cab to finish their journey to wherever.

Freaking Liberal comes next. He boards jauntily after taking five minutes to hook his 2,000 dollar bike to the front of the bus. He is wearing all wrinkled cotton shorts and a defunct bands' t-shirt and shoes that are buy one, give a pair to some stranger in Africa. He has a reusable bottle of water which he clutches like a sword, waving it about as he gets into a discussion with the Talker about bicycles and the economy of road repair and the flat tax. Freaking Liberals all have facial hair, just enough to make Tired Mom want to yell at them to get a damn razor, were you raised by wolves? Freaking Liberals are doused with cologne from Abercrombie or Gap, mixing it with the sweat pouring off of them after biking through the city in the heat and the residual aroma of Starbucks. This effectively creates an envelope of odor that surrounds them, blocking out Somnolent Drunk or Thug Lite and their strange and quite uncomfortable scents compo;ed of malt liquor and cheap cigarettes  lack of soap or an abundance of cheap cologne and weed.

The Rider is another common figure. He is on when you get on and on when you get off. He is on day after day after day. He is quiet, looking out the window of nodding off, never seeming to notice anything going on inside the bus unless the Self Conservationist, Tired Mom and the Talker start going head to head. He hums on occasion, he smiles or makes faces at Tired Mom's children. He will on a rare occasion give up his well worn seat to an elderly man or woman and always to a pregnant woman, sliding quietly back into it when they depart. His description is that he is nondescript, white, brown, black or yellow he is always dressed innocuously and never interacts unless he has too. He could be a serial killer, a modern day hobo, an international spy or someone riding the bus for warmth and a few hours of protection. He is boring and intriguing at once.

Last but not least there are people like me, The Havetas. I haveta ride because I can't see well, I have friends that haveta ride because they have lost their license  they crashed their car or don't own one, sociology experiments, college students haveta ride to get to and from class because their taxi money went to beer and books. We get on, smile, wrinkle our nose at the smell, greet the Rider expecting and getting no acknowledgement, chuckle at Thug Lite, ask Tired Mom to move one of her kids and slide into our regular seat as we make our way back home.




Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Grace Is My Name


The house we bought has a pool… at least it will be a pool after we clean it up and have it repaired. That is our goal for March and April

I can already envision coming home and sliding into it at the end of a long frustrating day. I imagine cook-outs with grandchildren jumping and screaming and laughing out loud as they play like seals. I imagine moonlight swims with the man I love as the deer walk through the yard softly snuffling their greetings at us and the night birds sing. 

I love to swim, my husband loves to swim, the grandchildren love to swim, and their parents love to swim. It was inevitable that eventually, if I ever had the money and the time we would have a pool. I am planning on many, many glorious days spent sunning (yes I know it is bad for you and have the scars to prove it) with my SPF 1000 on, lazily floating around like bit of flotsam, dipping and diving and frolicking about. Heaven is a backyard pool.

As far back as I can remember the act of going to the swimming pool has been synonymous with good times. My sisters used to take us to the swimming pool in Fort Leavenworth. We had patches sewn on our swimsuits that said FLOOM which allowed us entry, a magical pass that let us into summer and youth whenever we wanted to go. The pool was huge; the water was deep and was always full of handsome young men showing off for the teenaged daughters of the commanding officers. I didn’t understand nor care about the clumsy rituals of pubescent mating. I just got to be by myself in a blue and white world with the sounds of laughter coming to me, distorted by the water as I swum about until I was starved and sun drunk.

When we lived in Belgium we would go the pool in Zaventem. It had both an outdoor and indoor pool. Most of the young people sat outside around the water, more flirting and sunning and diving. For this reason I always swam inside, alone, floating in the quiet, the echo of small children crying and mothers shushing and old women murmuring as they stood in the water not moving but enjoying the company just the same. There were always one or two old men, scrawny, chicken necked, serious, doing the breast stroke up and down and up and down the pool, taking up a center lane and wrecking any cross pool swimming I chose to try to do.

I learned how to do a perfect dive here, I learned to back dive here. I learned how to stand on my hands in the moving water and do somersaults front and back, strings of them over and over until I was dizzy and out of breath.  I certified for a life guard’s badge here, for the fun of it. I had no intention of ever actually being one. Too much drama, too much exposure to the crowds of people I was so uncomfortable with. 

The one time I was convinced to go with friends I didn’t know what to do. I listened to their prattle, followed them outside as they strutted their newly formed stuff and felt utterly uncomfortable and more alone than I ever had. I did my share of flirting, strutting and ogling, just not here, not at the water covered by next to nothing, not in my quiet wavy place. My body was perfect in the water, I was free and limber and graceful. Outside the water I was awkward, had huge heavy embarrassing breasts and couldn't see where I was going. No contest, I always went alone after that.

We lived in a condo complex when my children were babies. I would load up the playpen and cooler and floaties and towels and bottles and toys and, making two or three trips cart the whole kit and caboodle to the pool every day it wasn't raining. I put the brightest ugliest floaties on my kids so I would be able to see them and they wouldn't drown. I splished and splashed with them, teaching them to dog paddle, to not be afraid to jump in, to go under, to hold their breath. Remembering my concave gut after hours of swimming when I was a kid I always had apples and Kool-Aid and crackers which they would scarf down and head right back into the water. They were nut brown, strong, thin, and oh so social. 

They played with their friends by the hour. Other kids came and went but we stayed, all day, every day. On mornings when we woke up and it was raining we all were grumpy, nothing was better than those free hours together yet separate and happy. Sometimes cousins would come and I had a few minutes of peace while my brother threw them all up in the air and chased them through the water like a shark.,

One time I jumped in and saved a little boy from drowning. He was autistic, hated being touched and easily frightened. A neighbor had decided that taking him into the deep end was all he needed to see what fun it could be. Unfortunately, she had passed the point of no return, her feet no longer anywhere near the bottom when she let go of his legs and touched his face in a loving gesture. He screamed and started swinging at her. She was completely taken by surprise and they both were going under and quickly. I had been talking to a friend and we heard a strange noise, weird hollering that made no sense. We both realized at once what had happened and jumped in, me going for the kid and her for the poor drowning lady. As I scooped him up he thrashed and screamed, clawing at my face until he finally latched onto my hair, a safe hold with no skin to skin contact. His trunks fell off in the struggle and this terrified him even more. We had the attention of the entire pool community now. I finally got him to release me from his death grip, latched his little stiff arms onto the ladder and swam into the deep to get his trunks back for him. As we struggled in the water to get them on he wouldn’t look at me, his legs stiff as boards, realizing that I was helping I guess, but not being able to deal with the nearness. I heaved myself out and took the next thirty minutes convincing him to let go of the ladder and touch me so I could help him out. His mother finally appeared out of nowhere, yelled at me, yelled at him and took her cranky bib-butted self back home where, it turned out, she had stolen a half hour to be with her boyfriend who had a slight problem with her kid not being a perfect normal little boy.

Other than those few times the days of summer run together for me in a haze of Coppertone and Kool-Aid until a tornado took away my roof, my clothes and sadly my lazy hazy summer days.

I went years without a pool before finally buying a house in a neighborhood that had one. I loved it, my husband hated it because there were rules and regulations and he has an issue with them in general. The kids had little children and somehow all of those years of letting them be children didn’t transfer and they were terrified of letting the kids get near the water or out of their sight for a second. I reminded them of our good times but still they balked. 

Except for the few times I managed to go by myself and be sun glutted I did not enjoy it. I was back out in the open, exposed in my swimsuit, now with an awkward body and big heavy breasts and not being able to see anything. If others were there I avoided it. It was not all in all a pleasant experience. In a few years as the grandchildren got a bit older and their paranoid parents let them go a little bit some fun times were had but we were already on the hunt for a new place
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In the end we found this house, surrounded by nothing with a pool of our own.  I look out at the board covered hole in the ground now and I can’t wait to be deep in the wavy blue and white world where grace is my name.