I Am Happy to See You, But That's a 30-Day Metrocard in My Pocket

This morning the bus on Fordham Road was stuffed to the gills. All the normal rules of bus shitiquette were being rigorously observed: slowest-moving rider to the front of the line; lifelong commuters still unable to properly insert Metrocards; woman with most giant ass ignores rest of bus and instead stands directly behind bus driver, causing incoming riders to horizontal-limbo around her buttstruction; International Harvester-sized stroller left parked in aisle, check; seething mob of boisterous junior high kids; old pair of frightened white folks turning, if possible, even whiter at loudness of kids; final delay by bus "kneeling" and extending ramp for wheelchair commuter, etc.

As I considerately wedge myself into the human meat press at the back of the bus, a very large Teutonic galoot, standing and clad in a long black felt coat, sort of bulks me aside, shunting me into a precarious spot by the back door. It's moderately unusual enough to encounter fellow honkies on this route--I'd already noted the jittery older Caucasians--but I am doubly surprised that not only was this large guy just as white as they (and I), but he seems to shield them from the other bus riders with his body. He looms over them protectively. Then the old folks start talking to the big guy, and I realize he must be their son or grandson or somesuch relation.

I turn to observe the trio, which was a mistake. When we get to our first stop, a surge of exiting riders forces me to frantically salmon-flop against their current to stay aboard. I end up right next to Andrew the Giant again. Sensing my presence, he turns to face me. Behind me, a countersurge of illicit riders scrambles in the bus's open back door, and I find myself pressed right up against this guy. He braces himself and I grab the rail next to his head. The doors close, and off we go.

The big guy gazes down upon me, and remember that I'm 6'1" myself, so that's no mean feat. He's mildly curious as to why I'm intruding on his personal space. He has that guarded vibe of someone who doesn't often ride mass transit and is surprised there's so many "people" that do. (You know what I mean by "people," don't you? Good, because I don't.) I glance down at the old folks. They are also looking at me. The old man peers at me suspciously; by contrast, the old lady looks almost pleased to see me. Don't worry, I want to say. I've only had a couple shouting matches with people on this route, and I've only come across one shooting.

I look back up the big guy. To my surprise, he appears to have interpreted my glance towards the old folks as some kind of inappropriate behavior or threat. His face has hardened into a patently adversarial expression. It's a staredown! What to do. I can't laugh, which is my first instinct. Well, I could, but that wouldn't make anyone happier, except me, until I was pounded. I don't think conversation is the answer. He probably wouldn't appreciate a reassuring smooch.

Instead I execute the extremely ill-advised maneuver of turning around to face away from him. We're still packed in by other people on all sides. I have to reach behind my own head to maintain a grip on the rail. With this dude hulking up behind me and my arm thrown sumptuously backward, I feel like a handmaiden about to be ravished by Conan the Barbarian. I manage to maintain a psychologically charged security zone of a couple inches between our torsos. The chitchat between old folks and giant-boy ceases. It's so awkward I can't stop smiling, though I try to mask it with frequent yawns and coughs. What to say? "I assure you, young man, this is not frottage." And then I'd have to explain what "frottage" means. It might actually be worse if he did know what it means. I consider wriggling away through the crowd, though that could lead to another shouting/shooting match.

I'm saved by the bus-stop bell, as the trio gets off at the next stop (along with the wilding junior high kids). They seem to be heading toward Arthur Avenue, which might mean they're here to tour Little Italy, which is, of course, mostly Albanians now. But let them discover that for themselves, as another chapter in their thrilling Bronx safari.

Comments

[John M. Hicks]

          Ah, Chris! Just think, here in Alabama, you could be riding buses with only one or two passengers! Rarely is a bus even half full in this county...

JH

[chris m]

As I recall, they were much more full in the neighborhoods that had more use for them, i.e. the northside. Most any white Birminghamians I ever talked to had a deep-seated hatred of public transit due to either insistence on ever single person driving their own car, and/or a frank prejudice against buses as something reserved for black and/or poor people.