THE WHEELS ON THE BUS...

Nobody likes getting yelled at. But there's something extra-humbling when the person who's opted to funnel their verbal violence into your face is a foul-mouthed homeless guy.

Sure, he might be off his meds or completely doped up out of his mind, and yeah he's probably seen shit I can't even begin to imagine, but when you're sitting quietly amongst two dozen total strangers on a city bus, to be particularly singled out to be the recipient of an endless trail of screaming bum spit is a bit humiliating. Because really, nobody, not even this shouting hobo, wants to be on a city bus.

I am of the opinion that waiting for, and then riding public transportation can be equated to being on fire, and then not on fire anymore.

Waiting for public transportation when you need to be somewhere is an excrutiating ordeal, standing there like a helpless chump, thinking about having to potentially rearrange your entire day because there's no bus in sight. Suddenly, you're making phone calls, changing plans, and thinking every 3 to 7 seconds that those underpass lights up there just might be a bus, even though they haven't been for the last 45 minutes. Is that one? No, it's a UPS truck. Fuck, I'm late for work again. I'm going to be fired today. But wait! What's that? Could that be it, or is it another fucking dump truck? How many god damned dump trucks could possibly be needed in this direction on this street anyway? Some of the happiest times in my Chicago life have occured when no, I won't need to alter my entire day's plans, and yes, I will still have a job, because that fucking bus has finally, ever-so-slowly rolled up to the bus stop.

But it's bitersweet.

As soon as you enter, you're smacked upside the sinuses with a fog of funky smells fading in and out of potency as you shuffle down the aisle looking for a seat- wet dog, farts, an actual rank armpit pressed into your nostrils, fried chicken, farts again, rotting trash, a diaper filled with baby poop, chinese food, then finally, hot, rotting luncheon meat. You begin to wonder why you had to have exact change and PAY for the priviledge of riding this slow moving stink tunnel. But at least a seat is open. You quickly snag the seat before someone else notices, but your elation is quickly snuffed by a wave of intense, sharp fear- why wasn't anyone else sitting here? There are four people standing in the aisle. Were they just tired of sitting all day? No- this is America, where everyone absolutely fucking loves to sit. For God's sake- people argue over who has more claim to being the one who should sit. Oh God... did I look at the seat before I sat down? No. Fuck. Why does it reek of cheese vomit? Did I sit in barf? Wait is this seat wet? You reach under where you're sitting. No- it's dry. So why isn't anyone sitting here? What's in that plastic bag on the ground? Uh oh. That's a fucking condom. A used condom, and it's about fur centimeters away from your pant leg. Deciding that's not the way you want to contract A.I.D.S., you jettison yourself from the seat faster than a monkey on fire and join the other brave souls congregating in the aisle. Suddenly, you realize the guy sitting in the seat next to you is muttering racist propaganda to himself with occasional bursts of volume for no apparent reason. And...oh god. Now he's feeling your ass. You move up the aisle. Finally it's your stop- you get off, feeling as though you're a closeted gay in the 1930's who's just survived a police raid. But you paid for a transfer, 'cause you ain't home yet... what new horrors await?

If you're set on fire, you're happy to not be on fire anymore, but the fact of the matter is, you're still burnt and in tremendous amounts of pain.

So maybe that's a loose analogy.

Fact is, boarding a bus and managing to settle into a bodily fluid-free seat is one of city life's happy little miracles. The only way to properly enjoy it is to completely zone out, eyes glazed over, stare out the window, and think of how happy you are that you won't be washing another person's crap off your pants today. To settle into this happy, numb little mental glen only to be screamed at and repeatedly called a "motherfucker" because you HAPPEN to be sitting in some insane bum's seat when there are other seats open (apparently one can claim ownership of a certain spot on a bus they've just boarded) is more than a little discouraging.

Oh, how I constantly wonder what majesty will await me the next time I hear those doors woosh open and catch the pungent stench of human misery blasting out the doors of a CTA bus.