There always seems to be the same cast of characters on the bus each morning. There are two people who obviously know one another (I think they are related somehow) but they never sit next to each other. Normally they sit across the aisle from each other, but argue and antagonize all the way into downtown.
It can be amusing, because iPod doesn't let me hear what they actually say, I can only see their reactions, and the reactions of those around them.
This morning iPod chose Todd Snider's "Good News Blues," which was the perfect background music to their visual antics. The moon-faced guy likes to talk, and he constantly tries to engage people in conversation--everyone but the grim old lady across the aisle from him, of course. And he waves to each and every bus that passes. He also waves at all the bus stops--even when there is no one standing there. This morning I watched him wave to an empty bus shelter in front of the Aquarium.
His waving seems to upset the grim old woman, who snaps and snarls at him like a vicious little Pomeranian with thick glasses.
Which just eggs him on.
This morning a new face got on the bus, much to the delight of Mr.Waver. The new face belongs to a young businessman wearing a very sharp navy suit & tie. He made the unfortunate mistake of sitting next to Mrs.Grim, which is to say, across the aisle from Mr.Waver. The new guy sat down and opened his newspaper, but Mr.Waver was dead set on engaging this new speciman in conversation. The guy was courteous, as far as I could tell, which made Mrs.Grim snap at him.
Which is when iPod decided some Love & Rockets was in order: "Well the drunk outside the Wendy's is becoming less than friendly...A dog is barking at the moon."
Brilliant!
The new guy tried to read his newspaper, but Mr.Waver kept requesting to look at whatever section the poor guy opened. I could sense the new guy was getting frustrated by the shinanigans, but he continued to be courteous and handed each section to Mr.Waver. Mr.Waver didn't read anything--he would give it a cursory glance and hand it back, only to repeat the process two minutes later when the guy started to read.
"...newspaper boys selling you the hard truth...Lucifer employs idle hands by night and day..."
This went on until we were in downtown, and I couldn't help but smile to myself when the new guy bolted from the bus the moment it stopped.
"He wants to get away...from the city of light..."Who knows where he actually intended to disembark.
He just had to get away.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
"But I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this..."
Paris, 20 years ago...
It was that time of the month, and once again I was bedridden. It always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times too. Like when it happened the last day of band camp and I was so ill I could not participate in the final night’s shenanigans with the other members. I lay curled up on a cot in the dorm room while the flag corps advisor fussed and fretted over me with hot water bottles and cold wash cloths. My temperature was in triple digits and I couldn’t even keep water down. The bus ride home the following morning was grueling, and I was so violently ill that I was shunned as a leper by everyone, including my boyfriend.
You’d think I would have gotten used to it after so many years, but I hadn’t, and the pain relievers wouldn’t stay down long enough to work their magic.
And so it was that I lay fetuslike on a bed in a Parisian youth hostel, on a sweltering summer night, while everyone else in the world was out having a good time. My hostel roommates, mildly concerned for my comfort, had procured a sick bucket for the side of the bed, and had opened our second floor window to air out the room before setting off for a Saturday night of clubbing.
I lay sweating in the dark, cursing my fate and begging sleep to take pity and carry me away. It must have done, because some time later I was startled awake by a noise in the room. I foggily thought it was the roommates returning quietly as so not to wake me, but when I raised my head in the direction of the noise I saw a man, crouched low, rifling through one of the suitcases littering the room. My heart began to pound and I was sure he would hear it, so loud it sounded in my ears. I was terrified to move and my mind raced as to what to do. Should I scream? Should I try to get up and run? Should I continue to lay there and pretend I was asleep? I had no idea.
My mouth dried so rapidly that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I realized I was holding my breath, and I wasn’t even sure I could scream if I wanted. Who would hear me? Everyone in the hostel seemed to be gone for the evening; the corridors outside my room were silent. My world shrank to the blood thumping in my ears and the soft zip of a duffel bag being opened on the other side of the room. He was muttering softly to himself as he combed the contents of the bag, and I watched as he stood up and shoved something into his jeans pocket. Was he stealing money? Jewelry? I couldn’t tell. Stunned, I watched him move on to the next bag, which was only a few feet away from where I lay, paralyzed with fear.
He saw me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I was absolutely terrified and helpless, and he must have sensed it. He uttered something in French and started toward me, unzipping his jeans as he advanced. It was then that I realized I had been dozing on top of the covers wearing only a thin tank top and panties. “Oh God,” my mind raced, “he’s going to rape me and I can’t even move.” I could feel bile rising in my throat.
In the short time it took to think that phrase, he was on me, tugging at my underwear and muttering rapidly in French. My paralysis suddenly broke and I struggled beneath him. I still could not scream, my mouth a desert, but I fought mightily with him. He grabbed my arms to hold them down, but somehow I managed to wrench one free and latch hold of a small lamp on the bedside table. I slammed it into his face as hard as I could.
He fell off of me then, bloodied and panting. I dove from the bed and swung the lamp again, breaking it on contact with the side of his head. He stumbled toward the open window, hiking up his jeans as he went. I began to sob, and realized my voice had returned. He was already scrambling out the window as the screams escaped me, and I continued to wail for help as I watched him disappear down the fire escape and into the dark Paris night.
Bloodied and shaking, I felt my legs carry me out into the corridor, where they gave out and I collapsed, sobbing in my torn underwear. Was there anyone at all inside the hostel? Did anyone even hear my pleas for help? Would he come back when he realized no one else was there? Trembling, I tried to stand up and ended up vomiting all over myself.
But someone HAD heard. Someone on the lower floor came rushing from the stairwell to my aid. He took one look and immediately ran to the communal bathroom for towels and water. I choked out the words “attacked,” “thief,” and “window,” then crumpled into a convulsing heap. I guess I went into shock, because I don’t remember how I came to be wrapped in a robe (whose robe was it?), cleaned up (whose blood was it? Mine? His? Who washed it away?), nor how the police were summoned.
The man who came to my aid was a French Canadian named Norm. He translated my story to the hostel manageress and the French police. He argued with the police when they shrugged off the story as “a lover’s quarrel” and he raged against the hostel manageress when she demanded money for the broken lamp. He sat up with me in the commons area half the night, because I was terrified to go back into my room.
I’m ashamed to say that I cannot remember whether or not I ever thanked him.
It was that time of the month, and once again I was bedridden. It always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times too. Like when it happened the last day of band camp and I was so ill I could not participate in the final night’s shenanigans with the other members. I lay curled up on a cot in the dorm room while the flag corps advisor fussed and fretted over me with hot water bottles and cold wash cloths. My temperature was in triple digits and I couldn’t even keep water down. The bus ride home the following morning was grueling, and I was so violently ill that I was shunned as a leper by everyone, including my boyfriend.
You’d think I would have gotten used to it after so many years, but I hadn’t, and the pain relievers wouldn’t stay down long enough to work their magic.
And so it was that I lay fetuslike on a bed in a Parisian youth hostel, on a sweltering summer night, while everyone else in the world was out having a good time. My hostel roommates, mildly concerned for my comfort, had procured a sick bucket for the side of the bed, and had opened our second floor window to air out the room before setting off for a Saturday night of clubbing.
I lay sweating in the dark, cursing my fate and begging sleep to take pity and carry me away. It must have done, because some time later I was startled awake by a noise in the room. I foggily thought it was the roommates returning quietly as so not to wake me, but when I raised my head in the direction of the noise I saw a man, crouched low, rifling through one of the suitcases littering the room. My heart began to pound and I was sure he would hear it, so loud it sounded in my ears. I was terrified to move and my mind raced as to what to do. Should I scream? Should I try to get up and run? Should I continue to lay there and pretend I was asleep? I had no idea.
My mouth dried so rapidly that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I realized I was holding my breath, and I wasn’t even sure I could scream if I wanted. Who would hear me? Everyone in the hostel seemed to be gone for the evening; the corridors outside my room were silent. My world shrank to the blood thumping in my ears and the soft zip of a duffel bag being opened on the other side of the room. He was muttering softly to himself as he combed the contents of the bag, and I watched as he stood up and shoved something into his jeans pocket. Was he stealing money? Jewelry? I couldn’t tell. Stunned, I watched him move on to the next bag, which was only a few feet away from where I lay, paralyzed with fear.
He saw me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I was absolutely terrified and helpless, and he must have sensed it. He uttered something in French and started toward me, unzipping his jeans as he advanced. It was then that I realized I had been dozing on top of the covers wearing only a thin tank top and panties. “Oh God,” my mind raced, “he’s going to rape me and I can’t even move.” I could feel bile rising in my throat.
In the short time it took to think that phrase, he was on me, tugging at my underwear and muttering rapidly in French. My paralysis suddenly broke and I struggled beneath him. I still could not scream, my mouth a desert, but I fought mightily with him. He grabbed my arms to hold them down, but somehow I managed to wrench one free and latch hold of a small lamp on the bedside table. I slammed it into his face as hard as I could.
He fell off of me then, bloodied and panting. I dove from the bed and swung the lamp again, breaking it on contact with the side of his head. He stumbled toward the open window, hiking up his jeans as he went. I began to sob, and realized my voice had returned. He was already scrambling out the window as the screams escaped me, and I continued to wail for help as I watched him disappear down the fire escape and into the dark Paris night.
Bloodied and shaking, I felt my legs carry me out into the corridor, where they gave out and I collapsed, sobbing in my torn underwear. Was there anyone at all inside the hostel? Did anyone even hear my pleas for help? Would he come back when he realized no one else was there? Trembling, I tried to stand up and ended up vomiting all over myself.
But someone HAD heard. Someone on the lower floor came rushing from the stairwell to my aid. He took one look and immediately ran to the communal bathroom for towels and water. I choked out the words “attacked,” “thief,” and “window,” then crumpled into a convulsing heap. I guess I went into shock, because I don’t remember how I came to be wrapped in a robe (whose robe was it?), cleaned up (whose blood was it? Mine? His? Who washed it away?), nor how the police were summoned.
The man who came to my aid was a French Canadian named Norm. He translated my story to the hostel manageress and the French police. He argued with the police when they shrugged off the story as “a lover’s quarrel” and he raged against the hostel manageress when she demanded money for the broken lamp. He sat up with me in the commons area half the night, because I was terrified to go back into my room.
I’m ashamed to say that I cannot remember whether or not I ever thanked him.
Monday, August 15, 2005
"Scaring the nation with their guns and ammunition..."
Heavily laden with camping equipment, we continued east on Route 66, using a map acquired from the impish old lady at the Route 66 memorabilia shop in Oklahoma City. Unlike other states in which the endless grey ribbon runs, the Mother Road is perhaps easiest to travel in Oklahoma because it is signposted with historical markers.
We rescued an upturned turtle from the roadway around Edmond, and saw the famous Round Barn at Arcadia. Spying a small general store with two old pumps outside, we decided to fuel up, lest we run out of gas before Tulsa. Brad filled the tank while I sat in the car reading the map and plotting our journey.
Back on the road, Brad asked what towns and historic sights lay ahead. The next town listed on the map was Luther, but there was not a single sentence about the town in the handy Route 66 book we had been talked into buying from the tiny whirlwind at the memorabilia shop. On a whim, we detoured into the small hamlet of Luther and made a circle through the deserted, dusty downtown. I wondered aloud as to why Luther was so dismal, when most of the other Oklahoma towns we’d visited along Route 66 had been vibrant and cheerful. More homes in Luther were abandoned than occupied, which I thought was a shame because we saw gorgeous old gingerbread-trimmed Victorian homes that sat rotting by the roadside, waiting for owners who were never going to return. Since I love photographing abandoned buildings, I asked Brad to pull over so I could grab the camera from behind my seat.
“There’s a cop following us,” Brad said slowly, and eyed the rearview again. “He’s been following us since we left that general store. I’m not pulling over until he tells us to pull over.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes at him. “Why would he pull us over? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Brad gave a derisive snort and shot an “I-told-you-so” look my way. I could see flashing lights reflecting in the wing mirror as Brad pulled the car onto the side of the road. The cop walked up to the window and asked to see Brad’s license and insurance.
“Is there a problem, officer?” Brad asked as he pulled the required documents out of his wallet and handed to the officer. “I’ll ask the questions,” the Luther cop snipped tartly, and walked back to his car with Brad’s license and insurance card. We sat there trying to figure out why we had been pulled over when the cop came back to the car and stated that we were driving a stolen vehicle and told Brad to get out of the car. Brad protested that the car was definitely NOT stolen, and I leaned across Brad and told the cop that the car was mine and I had the registration to prove it. The cop drew his pistol, tapped the barrel against the door and repeated his request. Brad scrambled from the car and was marched AT GUNPOINT to the squad car, where he was put into the back seat.
Needless to say, we were both freaking out. I knew the car wasn’t stolen—it was MY CAR! I’d just finished paying the damned thing off four months prior. Ten minutes turned into twenty, then thirty. I rummaged through the console, hunting for the little black leather wallet that held my registration and insurance to prove my case. I glanced up to see a second cop, with lights flashing, pull in front of my car.
“Looks like the entire Luther police force is making an appearance,” I muttered darkly as the second cop walked up to the driver side window and looked in.
It was the stereotypical good cop/bad cop scenario. The second cop was friendly to me, and asked what brought us so far from Ohio. I told him we were following Route 66, and pointed at the maps and book lying on my lap. I also told him that there was no way my car was stolen, and I that I could prove it, waving the black registration wallet his way. He fired off a few questions at me, asking our route thus far and how long we’d been away etc. I answered each question, and reiterated that I could prove my car was not stolen. He carried my answers back to the bad cop, who still had Brad locked away in the back seat of his squad car.
Another thirty minutes passed as the cops took turns grilling us individually. The bad cop radioed the license plate number to the Luther dispatcher. The good cop ran a check on the VIN. They referred to me as “hon,” “darlin’” and “little missy,” and ignored my offers of license, registration and proof of insurance. It was really starting to piss me off, and I struggled to hold my smartass tongue.
They both seemed very interested, however, in the fact that the car was loaded down with camping supplies. Several times it was brought up that they could get a search warrant if we didn’t give our consent to a search. I finally blew up. “I don’t give a damn if you tear the entire car apart! But by God you will REPACK the entire contents when you find nothing illegal! It took us two hours to get the gear packed up in Utah, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to repack it all again!”
In the end, I guess the thought of repacking enough camping gear to outfit an army of Boy Scouts wasn’t their idea of a fun way to spend the evening, because the two bumpkin cops let us go. No ticket; no written warning; nothing.
They’d gotten their kicks.
We rescued an upturned turtle from the roadway around Edmond, and saw the famous Round Barn at Arcadia. Spying a small general store with two old pumps outside, we decided to fuel up, lest we run out of gas before Tulsa. Brad filled the tank while I sat in the car reading the map and plotting our journey.
Back on the road, Brad asked what towns and historic sights lay ahead. The next town listed on the map was Luther, but there was not a single sentence about the town in the handy Route 66 book we had been talked into buying from the tiny whirlwind at the memorabilia shop. On a whim, we detoured into the small hamlet of Luther and made a circle through the deserted, dusty downtown. I wondered aloud as to why Luther was so dismal, when most of the other Oklahoma towns we’d visited along Route 66 had been vibrant and cheerful. More homes in Luther were abandoned than occupied, which I thought was a shame because we saw gorgeous old gingerbread-trimmed Victorian homes that sat rotting by the roadside, waiting for owners who were never going to return. Since I love photographing abandoned buildings, I asked Brad to pull over so I could grab the camera from behind my seat.
“There’s a cop following us,” Brad said slowly, and eyed the rearview again. “He’s been following us since we left that general store. I’m not pulling over until he tells us to pull over.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes at him. “Why would he pull us over? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Brad gave a derisive snort and shot an “I-told-you-so” look my way. I could see flashing lights reflecting in the wing mirror as Brad pulled the car onto the side of the road. The cop walked up to the window and asked to see Brad’s license and insurance.
“Is there a problem, officer?” Brad asked as he pulled the required documents out of his wallet and handed to the officer. “I’ll ask the questions,” the Luther cop snipped tartly, and walked back to his car with Brad’s license and insurance card. We sat there trying to figure out why we had been pulled over when the cop came back to the car and stated that we were driving a stolen vehicle and told Brad to get out of the car. Brad protested that the car was definitely NOT stolen, and I leaned across Brad and told the cop that the car was mine and I had the registration to prove it. The cop drew his pistol, tapped the barrel against the door and repeated his request. Brad scrambled from the car and was marched AT GUNPOINT to the squad car, where he was put into the back seat.
Needless to say, we were both freaking out. I knew the car wasn’t stolen—it was MY CAR! I’d just finished paying the damned thing off four months prior. Ten minutes turned into twenty, then thirty. I rummaged through the console, hunting for the little black leather wallet that held my registration and insurance to prove my case. I glanced up to see a second cop, with lights flashing, pull in front of my car.
“Looks like the entire Luther police force is making an appearance,” I muttered darkly as the second cop walked up to the driver side window and looked in.
It was the stereotypical good cop/bad cop scenario. The second cop was friendly to me, and asked what brought us so far from Ohio. I told him we were following Route 66, and pointed at the maps and book lying on my lap. I also told him that there was no way my car was stolen, and I that I could prove it, waving the black registration wallet his way. He fired off a few questions at me, asking our route thus far and how long we’d been away etc. I answered each question, and reiterated that I could prove my car was not stolen. He carried my answers back to the bad cop, who still had Brad locked away in the back seat of his squad car.
Another thirty minutes passed as the cops took turns grilling us individually. The bad cop radioed the license plate number to the Luther dispatcher. The good cop ran a check on the VIN. They referred to me as “hon,” “darlin’” and “little missy,” and ignored my offers of license, registration and proof of insurance. It was really starting to piss me off, and I struggled to hold my smartass tongue.
They both seemed very interested, however, in the fact that the car was loaded down with camping supplies. Several times it was brought up that they could get a search warrant if we didn’t give our consent to a search. I finally blew up. “I don’t give a damn if you tear the entire car apart! But by God you will REPACK the entire contents when you find nothing illegal! It took us two hours to get the gear packed up in Utah, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to repack it all again!”
In the end, I guess the thought of repacking enough camping gear to outfit an army of Boy Scouts wasn’t their idea of a fun way to spend the evening, because the two bumpkin cops let us go. No ticket; no written warning; nothing.
They’d gotten their kicks.
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