Despite my stubborn attachment to a long-estranged love affair with my car (oh, little Sasha, I do hope my mother is treating you well), I have grown rather fond of public transportation in the past few years. Not only do I take ridiculous pride in the New York City MTA (I know, it's dirty and smelly and it doesn't tell you how many minutes til the next train, unless you're riding the L in certain stations - but it runs 24/7 and can take you almost anywhere you need to go!) but where else can you experience the kind of people you would otherwise be able to avoid in your own private vehicle?

I know, people-watching is a pretty passé fad these days - what aspiring writer doesn't claim to love people-watching? - so I'll rephrase. I don't people-watch. I observe, mentally note, instinctively deride, then guiltily reflect upon my inherent superiority complex and finally, self-hate. It's really quite a complicated and emotionally damaging process; I don't recommend it. Though if you're going to "people-watch" perhaps you should go my route instead, to avoid being clichéd.

Anyway. I had the lovely opportunity to experience the kind of person that I just can't get enough of while riding the Greyhound from Silver Spring, MD back to New York City on Monday morning. I was one of the last people to board the bus, trailed only by a gum-snapping chick from the Bronx, the chain-smoking, bedazzled tank top clad man who'd been chatting up Bronx chick's mom minutes earlier, and a mousy, invisible-looking goateed boy.

The only seats left were aisles, occupied by the carry-on bags of their adjacent occupants. I stopped at the first one I saw. "Is someone sitting here?"

The window occupant, a generic-looking caucasian male wearing a boring grey t-shirt and jeans, said curtly, "no," and removed his backpack. He seemed disgruntled to have to give up his backpack's seat and I was tempted to assure him that out of the remaining people in line I was his best bet, but he didn't seem like he would take to any sort of actual busride commentary. So instead, I pulled out The Kid, which I had borrowed from my brother and was determined to finish. After about twenty minutes, I fell asleep. (Note: this is not a reflection on the book itself. It actually was quite an enjoyable read. I was just extremely tired from watching too much TLC too late with my brother the night before.)

I awoke to the bus pulling into a rest stop on the Maryland border. Feeling a bit peckish, I hopped off the bus to get some yogurt. When I returned, Generic Grey T-Shirt spoke. "So you're headed to New York?"

"Yep."

"What are you doing in DC?" He had a Russian accent. I knew it was Russian only because I've been watching this cycle of America's Next Top Model and I love Natasha, the Russian mail-order bride.

"I was visiting my brother." I was pleasantly surprised that he was now striking up conversation after seeming so upset that I asked to sit next to him, but the more I talked to him the more I felt like it was only going to lead to bad places. He told me that he was going to New York City "on business," which led me to believe that he was some sort of young entrepeneur, the likes of which I've met through my current occupation as well as recent foray into online dating. He said he'd been to NYC a few times "on business." Then he told me that he really likes to party. Really. And then he asked me if the parties are any good in NYC.

I mean. Do you really have to ask? I don't even go to the parties, and I know.

Strike one.

Then it slowly came out that, actually, he's still in college. And, he doesn't actually live in DC. He goes to college in Virginia. And he's not really going to NYC "on business," but to "help a friend from Russia buy a car." What? Yeah. Didn't really care for clarification. But suddenly the "really likes to party" trait started to make a little more sense.

Strike two.

The bus started to move and I sat, awkwardly stiff, hoping that our conversation had reached its pitiable end. No such luck - he turned to me again and pointed at my left nostril piercing. "What is that, your bling bling?"

"Um, I guess."

"Why do you have it?"

"I got it when I was eighteen. I used to have a lot more piercings." I proceeded to show him the remnants of the various holes my college-aged self had paid my parents' money to get punched into my ears. Not because I wanted at all to impress him, but because I wanted to scare him away from continuing to ask me stupid questions about my "bling bling."

"Oh wow. Yeah I thought about getting earrings but then I didn't."

"Why not?"

"I dunno."

Fasc-in-a-ting.

Then he asked, "So where are you from?"

"Jersey," I replied.

He looked at me. "But, you look Asian."

[Record scratches]

I had my sunglasses on, and good thing because otherwise he would have seen possibly the biggest eyeroll in all of eyerolling history. (And, friends, I know you can vouch for the magnitude of my eyeroll.) It was all I could do not to pull a completely righteous tirade on racial stereotyping on him. But I cut him a little slack because, clearly, he's from Russia.

"Um," I began slowly, "Asian people can be from a lot of places."

Nevertheless, strike three.

At this point, I started to a. consider turning the bitch factor up so he would seriously leave me alone and have a fighting chance of making it to NYC with at least part of his leg NOT in his mouth and b. think of a good fake name for myself in case he asked. (The last time I gave a fake name, it was Tracie Lee. The time before, it was Denise. Clearly I need to think ahead.) Before I could make any decisions though (my default name would be Mia), he piped up again.

"So what book were you reading before?"

Sigh. The Kid, by Dan Savage of "Savage Love" fame, is about Dan and his boyfriend's quest to adopt a child in the late 90's. Yes, it prominently features gay people. Lots of mention of gay people, gay relationshops, gay love, and gay sex. I pulled the book out of my bag and handed it to him.

As soon as I did this, however, I knew that it was a mistake on several levels. The cover, you see, says nothing about the word "gay." It says the title - "The Kid" - and then the subtitle - "what happened when my boyfriend and I decided to go get pregnant." Dan Savage's obviously male name is splashed across the bottom of the cover, but you know. When homosexuality isn't really a part of your everyday perception of the world, you don't notice these things.

Generic Grey T-Shirt clearly didn't. He looked at the cover and balked. "Oh... it's that kind of book, huh? Yeah... a friend of mine once got a girl pregnant."

I turned and stared, once again thankful for the sunglasses but this time because they deflected the lasers that must have shot of out my pupils. I decided to not even address his second comment. "No, that's not really what this book is about. Dan Savage is gay. This book is about him and his boyfriend adopting a baby."

He could not have screamed the word uncomfortable and been more clear - Generic Grey T-Shirt was trapped in a corner about to puke. "Oh. Well... I mean... that's fine with me, if that's your thing... you know... if you and your girlfriend want to adopt a baby... that's fine with me." His tone spoke what he was really thinking, which was you new age hippie freak, get that homo book away from me before it crawls up my ass and turns me GAY!

Well, had I followed through with option "a" above, at this point I would have grabbed his hand and thanked him for sanctioning my choice to adopt a baby with my homosexual lover. Really?! You really mean it? It's "fine with you"? Oh thank the lord, I was just about to call it off because some college dude in a generic grey t-shirt and equally generic, cheap, day-old cologne was uncomfortable with the idea of same-sex couples and parenting. You've really made my day.

Instead, I just said, "No. I'm not reading it for reference. I'm reading it because it's interesting and it says a lot about the attitude toward homosexuality in the late 90's..." I trailed off with some off the cuff lines about equality and fit parenthood and all that jazz but I didn't put too much effort into it because I knew that as soon as he'd heard the word "gay" he had stopped listening.

Instead, I shut my mouth, stuck the book back in my bag, turned away and went to sleep, thankful that I didn't have to waste my favorite name on an ass like him. He probably expected it to be "Ching Chong Lotus Flower" or "Hot Lesbian Girl on Girl Pussy Action" or something.

Now, can you imagine if I had driven myself back to NYC? Think of the story you would have been denied the pleasure of reading.

And that is why I love public transportation.

comments

at first i was gonna say, "sigh...she thinks this dude is like me" but then i realized that it wasn't so cause this dude is like any other typical ignorant college student of today. yay.

bchan | April 25, 2007 2:28 AM

what fun! why didnt anything like this happen on our tortuously long and dull trip down? maybe i'll have a story after my bus ride tomorrow....

jason | April 25, 2007 10:33 AM

omg. i laughed SO HARD at work when i read this. ps - i miss you, online friend ... :( phone call some time soon perhaps?

Molly | April 25, 2007 1:11 PM

Dude, long, but DEFINITELY worth the read. Most amusing, I've had interesting interactions with people on buses as well, but I've never chosen to write about them. They all tend to be positive because I don't ROLL MY EYES as much as you do.

My Karel-eye-rolling impression is by far the best, can anyone claim theirs is better?

Mat | April 25, 2007 5:30 PM