Anatomy of a Crowded Bus

I have a pretty big problem with crowded buses. Mostly because humankind does not understand how to behave in a logical manner aboard these vessels and instead adheres to some bizarre personal code of bus ethics that does nothing to facilitate the journey but makes me want to pull their hair.

When I'm stuck standing; I'm most likely flailing about as the driver engages in a passionate love triangle between foot, gas pedal and break. I remember fondly when I flew into the laps of four unsuspecting passengers, having failed to correctly calculate the complicated physics equation necessary to accurately grip the handrail looming inches outside of my normal range of grasp. But I don't really mind the gymnastics compared to the other bozos on board. Even my fellow standees won't unite in stand-dom and REFUSE to move to the back of the bus. People do this thing where they shift in place, look at the ground and wear a hapless, confused expression, like, "oh...well... I..uh....no where for me to..huh...pphhh." There is huffing and eye rolling when the they are ordered to the back by the driver or another brave standee that understands my plight. I make it a point to catch this persons eye and send him a knowing look and waves of gratitude, "I know! These people! The back! It's so simple! We could all fit!" We are one, me and this guy. It helps of course that my breasts are occasionally thrust into his shoulder but this is not awkward, this is the price of battle.

The other people to hate when you're standing are of course, those who are sitting down. Very few have the decency to stare out the window and allow you your visually unappealing struggle in private. No, most enjoy watching your misery. "Look at you, you minion. You wretched, seatless creature. My fortune so far exceeds yours. It is delightful!" Little do they know that as soon as one of their compatriots disembarks, we of the seatless masses will join their ranks post haste.

Unless of course you belong to the infuriating few who will continue to stand after a seat is vacated. There is not an elderly person or pregnant woman in sight, yet these people stand stoically beside this seat, waving away those who bring it to their attention. They fancy themselves martyrs. "Observe me, you others of lesser stock. Watch as I so bravely buffet about and refuse the comfort of a seat! You are so weak! You are so attached to your luxuries! I will suffer, I will triumph!" Yeah. Sit the Ffffffffff down. Seriously. There are no medals here; no one is handing out certificates for bus bravery. See how it works is, if you sit down, you free up some space, thereby allowing others to shift and even out the entire standing to sitting ratio on the bus. Displacement, maybe it's called? Distribution of volume? I don't know but sit your smug ass in that seat and wipe that holier than thou look off of your face. You will not make me feel guilty for sitting. Instead I will burn you with my fiery stares and hope that a violent stop sends you hurtling to the floor. 'Kay?

The real crux of crowded bus riding comes when your only choice for a seat are the few in the front that must be relinquished to the elderly and disabled. Whenever such an individual boards the bus you can see your fellow front seat holders nervously glancing at each other, wondering who will get up first. If I don't, will I look insensitive? Evil? Will I earn the hateful glances and exaggerated sighs of other passengers who think this is what's wrong with America everyone is so lazy they cannot get up for an old person on the bus? It's quite apparent that the elderly are not often accommodated by fellow seated passengers, and I'm sure that as a pregnant lady if you're not in labor then you're out of luck. If I am in the first seat and I stand immediately upon seeing Nana, she's inviting me over for tea and gingersnaps out of gratitude. And then there is the situation where I find myself at the back end of the front section, sitting down but behind a fortress of people. Then the stress heightens--if I get up then this elderly woman will have to elbow her way through this crowd, with her grocery cart, past the guy with the huge gut, under the teen with the ipod and over the hipster with a shoulder bag, in order to take over my seat. And then, why do I have to be responsible? What about that a-hole sitting in the first seat? YOU GET UP and that way I don't need to have palpitations over my civic responsibilities.

So what's clear here is that my bus riding skills are much more highly evolved than the majority of other Washingtonians. And until we are jetpacking to work or beaming our molecules from spot to spot, I'm going to sit when I can, stand when I have to and if you see me reaching to grab a fistful of hair from some one's ignorant bus riding head, talk me down, please?

A Scent of Summer

Yesterday, I smelled the summer. Not in an overarching kind of way-- this scent was specific and could bare no other label. In the split second of an afternoon inhale I pinpointed it instantly: wet grass beneath the sprinkler's arch.

Remember that delicious smell? Before the era of the town pool when refreshment was a simple yard tool and a hose away? The water's scent becomes richer, prickles with the very minerals afloat within, and mingles with the sweetness of the grass. It's the cleanest, freshest scent that springs into your lungs and catches right in the middle of your chest, radiating a coolness and an earthy abundance.

Remember the feeling? Of that first run through the spray, your toes tickled by the newly damp blades of grass? You'd feel your hair getting soaked, clump by clump and constantly need to peel it off your cheeks as you tumbled over and over through the mist. Remember putting your mouth over one of the tiny holes in the sprinkler to take a drink and how the power of the stream would surprise you, leaving a little pinprick feeling in the back of your throat? Or how you'd put your fingers over several of the holes and pretend to play the piano, the concentrated stream so close to your fingertips making them feel pleasantly numb. There were some icky feelings too--the squelching of the ground as it turned to mud beneath your feet and the blades of grass that would stick to your legs and between your toes. Remember how during the height of day the water made the once fierce sun feel satisfyingly warm against your skin? But then as the day waned, you'd stand back from the water and goose bumps would graze your arms, which soon gave way to the shivers. These meant it was time to seek the warmth of your towel and the tiny terrycloth loops that nestled themselves on your skin and enveloped you in the perfect kind of summer warmth.

If you could hear the sounds again, wouldn't you? The little girl and little boy giggles, the click of the sprinkler as it continued its back and forth path, suggestions squealed to each other, "do a cartwheel through it!", "twist in the air!". There's a lightness in that summer afternoon soundtrack--somewhere in the background are your parents voices, cars passing lazily on the street, a grill top squeaking open.

You can see it too; I know you can. Maybe it's your front yard or your backyard, your neighbor's house or your grandmother's, but there is in some sprays of the sprinkler a rainbow set among the drops, brightly dusting you with its color. There is your little girl head, leaning over the streams and watching as your hair dances its own water ballet. You are in a tableau of summer--scampering about in a season whose very nature makes us freer.

It is a state of watery, warm, exuberant, and exhilarating perfection.