Das Bus

I’m sitting on a greyhound bus, on my way down to New York City to visit friends and to see my sister. I’m typing on my new laptop (Jeff, you really are the best boss ever!) My new laptop is a Lenovo X60s. For those of you following along at home, this is the ultra small version of the Think Pad. The fact that my laptop is ultra tiny is a very good thing. Why? It’s simple… the woman in front of me has decided to recline her seat.

When will people learn that bus seats, like decorative soaps and the appendix, are to be looked at and never used? The inside of a greyhound bus is a delicate system and the balance must be carefully preserved. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Make the day you get on a bus the day that you take a shower And never, ever under any circumstances, think about reclining your seat.

I am now trapped between the window and the man sitting next to me. The last time I was this contorted was in yoga class and that was under professional supervision. I feel like a combination of a veal and a pretzel.

All I need is for my seat mate to whip out his cell phone and shout private details about his life at a voice that can be heard even when I turn my iPod from “minor ear-bleeding” all the way to “permanent hearing loss.” Oh wait, that already happened.

Have I mentioned that I hate taking the bus?

It could be worse… I could on the Fung Wah bus. More accurately, I could be standing on the side of a highway looking at a broken down Fung Wah bus and wondering if I we will ever make it to New York City.

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I learned two important lessons today. The first one was, never pack when drunk.

I went with a friend to play trivia last night. Kristian was on pager duty, so he had to limit himself to dropping me off at the bar and then picking me up a few hours later, tipsier than he left me. I wasn’t “sloppy, falling over my pretty shoes drunk” (although my shoes were pretty fabulous). I was, however, “happily buzzed and singing along to Love Shack” drunk. Kristian likes this level of drunkitude. It doesn’t involve any broken ankles. It does, however, involve me complaining (once again) that he doesn’t have any Men at Work on his iPod. I want to listen to “Land Down Under,” dammit!

I suspect that Kristian has conveniently forgotten (time and time again!) to add any songs from the Men at Work oeuvre in order to spare himself from having to listen to me scream, at the top of my lungs, “I come from a land down underrrrrrrrrrrrr!” like I did every time I got drunk before he reformatted his iPod.

I show him (time and time again) that I can be just as obnoxious when singing along to the B-52’s.

Anyways, I arrived at home last night (lightly toasted) and realized that I had neglected to pack for my trip to NYC. Because my powers of organization rival those of a skittish eight-year-old with ADHD and a coffee buzz, my packing method usually consists of me walking around my apartment and throwing anything in my bag that catches my eye and that I think that I might need. Because my naturally magpie-like tendencies are greatly magnified with the addition of alcohol into my system, a lot of things caught my eye while I was packing last night.

I’m not entirely sure what exactly I packed that was so heavy. My best guess would have to be rocks. Maybe cinder-blocks. Possibly some clean underwear and socks.

The second lesson that I learned today is that there is an important difference between the words “cancel” and “confirm.” Also, you should always listen to all of your voice mail messages.

Kristian checked the voice mail on our house phone last night and let me know that my doctor’s office had called bout my appointment with a dermatologist (apparently moles aren’t supposed to just start bleeding). Unfortunately, he only listened to the first messge. The message that used the word “confirm.” The other message, the one using the dreaded word “cancel,” was left alone and unlistened to in the system.

I got up at 7am this morning. I took a shower. I grabbed my heavy bag filled with rocks, cinder-blocks and clean underwear. And I trekked myself all the way across town to my doctor’s office only to be told, “Oh, we cancelled your appointment. Didn’t you get the message?” Clearly I did not get the message. If I had gotten the message I would have taken my enormous bag of rocks and underwear and I would have gone some place more fun than a doctor’s office. Perhaps a café. Or a diner for breakfast. I might have even gone to work. Who knows?

All I know is, there a very long list of things that I am happy to get up early for. Dragging a heavy bag across town to a cancelled doctor’s appointment is not one of them.

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The woman in front of me had better be enjoying her nap. Because I think that I just lost all feeling in my toes. Also, the man behind me had better hang up his cell phone before I take it away from him and I shove it up his nose. I am fairly sure that most manufacturers’ warranties don’t cover nasal extraction. Call me crazy, but I just don’t understand why you would call every single person that you know, from the bus, to make plans for the night. He should have thought of that before he left. All I know is that Debbie wants to go out, but Alice isn’t being very fun. Oh, and a lesser person than myself would probably steal his dinner reservations.

I turn around every now and then to give him my patented icy stare of death, misery and destruction. Unfortunately, his shield of ignorance, self-absorption and not-giving-a-fuck-about-anyone-around-him seems to be holding. He has a big nose. I bet I could get his cell phone all the way up into his lower cortex.

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I remember a time in my life when I loved taking the bus. Clearly, this was a time in my life when I was shorter and more flexible. I seem to recall that this was also a time when every Tom, Dick and Harry didn’t have a cell phone. It was a kinder, gentler time when dinosaurs ruled the earth and I could fit into size 4 jeans.

I loved taking the bus because it was time all to my own. I always packed my disc man (covered in appropriately angsty, teenager-y stickers), a book and my journal. I was emo before it was cool to be emo and I wrote many a tragically overwrought poem on bus rides.

I took the bus to see my boyfriend in Connecticut. I took the bus to see my sister in New York. I took the bus to make a sweetly emotional student film in New Hampshire. What my parents paid out in bus tickets, they more than saved in gas, insurance and car payments.

Taking the bus was my first foray into going out into the world as an adult. Well, as much of an adult as one can be with a discman covered in stickers and a ticket paid for by your parents.

I loved the bus because it opened up new horizons. I also loved it because it gave me a set amount of time to use or squander as I saw fit. I could sleep the whole way. I could use it as an incentive to get around to finally doing some math homework. I could write yet another poem about how nobody understood me.

I perfected the art of persuading people to not sit next to me. Unless the bus was full, I almost always had the seat next to me open. It was quite simple, really. All I had to do was curl my combat-boot clad feet under me and scowl. I suspect that most people would rather spend a bus ride sitting next to a fat man with body odor issues than have to sit next to a sullen teen.

I can only remember two times when I was forced to share my seat. The first time, I sat next to a drunk man who continuously offered to “sell me something to make the bus ride go faster” and who, when I pretended to fall asleep (so as not to be forced to listen for the eleventy billionth time that there were 6 things that you need to know about life and they are… [sounds of him spacing out]) preceded to poke my arm repeatedly and ask, “are you awake?” When he got off at Worcester and I made it known that he was not getting back on, the people in the seats around me broke out into spontaneous applause.

The other person that I was forced to share a seat with was a medical student who was in the middle of a Psychology rotation and who attempted to ask me questions about my feelings for the purpose of letting me know what was “wrong with me.” He also told me about all of the times that he self-diagnosed himself with cancer. Between you and me, I kindof preferred the drunk guy.

I guess I’m not as sullen as I used to be. I almost never get a seat to myself anymore. Last time I went to NYC, I sat next to a girl who fell asleep, started snoring and then fell on top of my shoulder. I gave her a gentle hip check to get her back onto her own side and then took pictures of her drooling with my camera phone.

I bet that nobody would ever want to sit next to a girl who finally said “Enough!” and shoved a cell phone up some guy’s nose. No jury in the world would convict me.