Helping the Booty Caller

I made it to work today and realized that I forgot to get something in my apartment. So I decided to take a cab home, get "the thing" (it's kind of personal, so you understand) and cab it back super quick. All was going according to plan. I got "said thing" and started to look for my cab ride back downtown. However, like an angel from heaven, a southbound 42 appeared.

I ran to the stop, reaching for my wallet and getting my $1.25 ready. It was the middle of the day, so the line was essentially, me, a guy... and another guy.

As we board, guy #2 says to me, "Hey, does this bus go to the White House?"

I immediately notice his attire. He was wearing a t-shirt that was a little too small for him, but you could tell it wasn't really meant to be tight. And his pants were definitely suit pants. Striped, in fact. His shoes were suit shoes. His hair was messy. It didn't take a genius to figure this one out. It was a girl's t-shirt! And they were suit pants! Could it be a midday walk of shame!?!?!

But why go to the White House?

All of a sudden, excited in my curiosity, and like the Helpy Helperton that I am, I say, "It sure does! It actually passes the White House. You'll see it from the bus!"

"Awesome," he says, "thanks so much. How much is it? A dollar?"

So, I'm thinking, walk of shame, yet from out of town. A long-distance spontaneous relationship, perhaps? Then, my mind wandered, and I thought, how romantic! He obviously just had to see her (or him, you never know) so badly, that he hopped on a train from New York, said, screw you work, knocked on her door, surprised her with a rose he constructed from the front page of the New York Times, and then they had the most amazing night ever.

I had to help this boy. The story, although completely in my head, was just too good.

"Actually," I say, still playing the role of Helpy, "It's a dollar twenty-five!"

I get on first, and as I'm finessing my bill through the machine, I hear him mumble something about not having exact change. I turn around and notice he has a dollar bill, but no quarter. So, I say, "Do you need a quarter? Here! Take one of mine!"

"Oh man, thanks so much," he says, "that's so nice."

We both board the bus. As I reach my stop, I say, "Have fun," and that was that. I was proud to be a part of that boy's story, even though, you know, I totally made it up.

Mean Cab Woman Goes Down

This was the scene this morning. Me = running late. Bus = not one in sight. Game time decision = wait and be even later, or splurge on a cab ride to work.

I went with the cab ride.

After about 10 cabs passed me by, all full with passengers, a driver finally stopped. He already had a passenger in the back, and usually I just wave these guys by (for 12 bucks, I'd like some personal service, I mean, really) but I decided to go for it. Who knew when the next one would come.

So I get in the front seat and instantly found myself missing the people of the 42.

Cabbie: Where you going?
Me: 18th and N please.
Mean Woman in Back: (huffing noises)
Cabbie: Ok, we go now.
Me: (taking my seat in the front) Great, thanks.
Mean Woman in Back: Oh Jesus! (more huffing, breathing noises)
Me: (sensing the tension) You can drop her off first.
Mean Woman in Back: Um, no, he can't. I'm going to Southwest!
Cabbie: It's ok, I drop you off first (meaning me). On the way. On the way.
Me: (timidly) Ok.
Mean Woman in Back: It is not on the way. Jesus Christ.
Cabbie: (increasingly annoyed, and louder) It is on way! It is on the way!
Me: (always trying to keep the peace) You can drop me off wherever. Just in the general area would be great.
Mean Woman in Back: (shuffling around, breathing heavily, adjusting the window up and down, up and down)
Cabbie: (at my stop) It's $10.80.
Me: (very uncomfortable) Great, can I have eight dollars back?
Cabbie: (just before he essentially pushes me out the door) Sure.
Me: (sarcastically) Thanks so much! Have a great day! (looking in the back seat at this woman who obviously needs some lovin') And you have a great day too!

She didn't know what to do. I loved it.

Baby Whisperer

Just when I thought I couldn't ever help anyone, something amazing happened today.

I had a rough morning, lots of crap on my mind, lots of things happening. Everyone was in my way, not because they were too slow, but more because they were too fast. I wished the world would just slow down. Little things were getting to me. I locked my door, glanced over at the bus stop, and, predictably, a bus was there, and it was leaving. I would have to wait for the next one. This happens a lot, but today, it seemed worse.

So I waited, and boarded the next one. Did you ever have one of those days when you wished you could just scream? Why is it we don't? I guess we wouldn't want to disturb the peace. And get arrested.

As I sat there, wishing I could just let it all out, I noticed a baby across from me. I was in that section of the bus where the seats face each other. Anyway, the baby was crying. Loudly. Instead of being annoyed and turning up my music, I was somehow calmed by it. I thought, man, this kid is lucky! So I looked at him and smiled. I might have actually stuck out my tongue.

The baby stared at me, suddenly stopped crying, and gave me a little smirk.

I had quieted the child. Could I have magical baby-quieting powers? Kids always seem to respond to me, but this was utterly amazing. Am I the baby whisperer? I feel like they should hire me to ride city buses and make babies stop crying. Could be a lucrative business... hmmm...

Nah, in actuality, I think the need to release emotion connected us. Sure, his emotion might have been more of a basic human one, like, for example, "I miss my bottle," but still. Lucky little bastard. Thanks, kid. I think we helped each other.

Bus Infection

Sometimes I forget how a positive attitude, or a moment of kindness, can be infectious. It’s especially powerful when it happens on a city bus, where all too often I find we’re simply unaware of each other completely.

Today I didn’t have a seat. This is not unusual. Yet, as I stood there, in the middle of the aisle, one hand raised and clasped to the bar above me, about three people offered me their seats. I refused all of them, just in case an older person boarded at the next stop. Or a pregnant woman. Or a kid. Kids are surprisingly unstable on moving buses. In any case, I remained standing.

Two stops later, an older woman sitting near me stood up, looked directly at me, and gestured toward her seat. This woman had to be at least 70. She was cute, dressed up as if she was heading to church on a Sunday.

I was thinking, ok, there is no way I am taking this woman’s seat. I started to give her my, “Oh, no thanks, please, you sit,” hand motion, when our eyes met. In that brief moment, I felt like it was really important to her that I accept her offer. Even though I was perfectly fine standing, I decided to take the seat. As I made my way through the aisle, she headed toward the door. I sat and the bus stopped. She took one step down, turned around, and we exchanged a smile.

What I hadn’t realized at first was that she was departing at that next stop. She knew she wouldn’t need the seat too much longer, and, for some reason, she really wanted me to have it. She had singled me out.

That brief moment really touched me. I felt undeserving. Yet I noticed how my mood changed. The day, at least so far, seems better. I also noticed how I seem to be holding more doors, stalling more elevators and engaging in more friendly conversation. Infectious.

Enraged over Empanadas

Ay dios mio. Today's bus ride was hell. Not because it was slow. And not because I didn't get a seat. No. It was because of a single scent. A scent that taunted me all the way down Connecticut Avenue.

I recognized it instantly. Far too many nights in Adams Morgan had concluded with that scent. The 3 am stumble. The long line. The excitement of choosing among spinach and chorizo and Jamaican. And then the realization that no matter what you choose, you will walk home happy, reaching into that tiny bag of goodness. The steam escapes. The scent draws you in. Before you know it, you're home, you're full, and you're dreaming of a woman named Julia. I think you know the treat of which I speak. Oh yes. It's none other than... the glory of... the empanada.

Empanadas are the perfect food, or at least one of several perfect foods (I'd also suggest the meatball, soy milk, chocolate pudding and, of course, sushi). An empanada is just so tasty. And self-contained. It's beautiful.

Anyway, the scent crept down the aisle of the bus and directly into my nose. My head perked up, and I wondered, who's the asshole who brought the warm empanada on the bus? I mean, really. Did he not realize how torturous this was for all of us? Especially passengers who may have, hypothetically, been to a spin class at 6:30 in the morning and were really really hungry?

I'd like to make a motion. Under no circumstances should bus patrons be permitted to carry warm, aromatic, delicious food items on the bus. It's just not fair. If I ever find you, empanada man, let me tell you. All I know is, you better keep one eye on that empanada of yours.

The Sundress

I've always thought that women got a poorer deal in the "morning routine" department. It's not that we're high maintenance, it's just that we have more to do. Right?

Well, perhaps not. As I boarded the 42 in the ungodly heat this morning, I realized that maybe that assumption isn't true. Of all the women on the bus, I bet about two thirds were wearing sundresses. The sundress is perhaps the easiest of all things women can wear. It literally takes two seconds to slip on. Put on a little makeup, toss the hair a bit, slip on the sundress, and then bam. You're lookin' cute and you're on your way to work.

Plus, you brighten up the days of everyone else along the way. It's just a happy outfit. It's cool, quick, and happy. I gotta get me some of those. Next pay check.

Little People

There were little creatures milling about on Columbia Road today. At first, I couldn't identify them. They seemed to be people, only shorter. And smaller. Instead of briefcases, they had brightly colored packs, which they wore using both shoulders. Some were smiling. And some were slightly unstable, although I don't think they had been drinking.

I searched my memory. Where have I seen such creatures before? Somewhere in my past... hmmm... ah yes!

They were children! But what were they doing on the 42?

It's always odd to see kids among young professionals, and I have to say it's really refreshing. But seriously, was it "Bring Your Kids to Work Day" or something? It had to be. Either that, or kids are smarter and more productive than we think. They are now infiltrating our coffee shops, our job markets and our public transportation. Survival of the fittest is working against us, people. Beware.

(FYI, I really do love little people... and I'd like to see more of them on the 42, if possible. They seem to make everyone a bit nicer.)

Summery Guy Opts for Corduroy

The bus was super crowded today, forcing me to stand. But it was all good. I turned up my Dreamgirls soundtrack and tapped my foot to the beat of "Patience," a song that instills its very name and makes the unnecessarily long commute seem short. And full of soul. Anyway...

I stood behind a man who, despite his outfit, seemed very "DC in the summertime." A) he resembled a frat boy, as many people in DC do (blah), and B) he was blond and nicely tanned. Despite his summer-like appearance, he was sporting a corduroy jacket. A brown corduroy jacket. And his shirt was buttoned all the way up, accessorized by a tightly-knotted necktie.

Now, I'm no fashion expert, nor do I really care about the latest trends, but corduroy? It's such a warm material! And it's 95 degrees out! This is crazy, I thought. Even if you have no other options in your closet, and you have an important client meeting today, surely just a dress shirt would be a better option. Then I thought, well, maybe he's not actually hot. But he was! Sweat was literally dripping down his entire head.

What motivates people to do what they do, I wonder. Crazy summery-looking corduroy guy, I feel bad for you, but that is your choice. I just hope you didn't pass out on your way to work today. Yikes.

Other Side of the Tracks

Today, I woke up, went to the gym, got ready for work and then grabbed my car keys. Yep, that's right, you heard me. I said CAR KEYS.

I wish I could say I owned a car, but, alas, it was only a rental. I drove it downtown to return it, sadly saying goodbye to my short stint of travel independence.

Interestingly, I drove down Connecticut, the very same route of the 42. I passed about a million buses, proving to myself that the 42 really is frickin' slow. But it was a positive moment. My windows were open. I bounced from 99.5 to 107.3 to 93.9 to 97.1 and back again. Yes, I am not afraid to admit I listen to soft rock. Anyway, I felt free --- unbound by the rules of bus.

It was bitter sweet though. I wanted to swerve in front of the 42 and say to my fellow passengers, "Get in! I have working air conditioning! And music! And an express route to your office! Revolt against the inconsistencies and poor quality of DC public transportation. Join me in this sexy Chevy Cobalt! Ok, now who's with me?"

Haha, everyone would be like, who's this freak show? They'd turn up their ipods. Pull the cord. Stop requested.

Beyonce Boards Bus

It can't be true. The most successful and most talented modern R&B diva certainly wouldn't voluntarily choose DC public transportation. But, for a brief moment, I would've sworn to you that Beyonce boarded the 42 today. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Or the product of listening to the Dreamgirls soundtrack for the 87th time yesterday. Or that extra Tylenol PM I took last night. Who knows. But if it wasn't Beyonce, this woman needs to start a second career.

I was completely mesmerized. Could I be so lucky that Beyonce herself would not only board the 42, but board the very bus I so happened to choose this morning? I wouldn't put it past her. After all, she is, ultimately, amazing. In my head, perhaps fuzzy from sleeping pills, I envisioned the following monologue. I would say something to the effect of:

"Hey Beyonce. What's up. My name is AO. I'd like to say my name. It's AO. You must be riding the bus for the very same reason I am riding this bus. You have bills, bills, bills. I get that. Right here, Beyonce, right here (at which point I would do that two finger-eyes thing). We'll be ok though. You are a survivor. And I am a survivor. We're gonna make it. What. Hey, this is totally like deja vu, you know? Hello? Are you not paying attention to me? Why don't you listen? To the song here in my heart.... (at which point I would start singing, Beyonce would recognize my irreplaceable vocal skills, I would get a record contract and then Beyonce and I would become best friends. I would be her confidant, her rock. We'd travel the world, harmonizing and talking smack about Brittany. We'd be crazy. Crazy in platonic love.)."

Too bad that was all in my head. I don't think I'll be taking a sleeping pill tonight.