Monday, May 24, 2004

A Hummer on the Bus

I’ve ridden with the Hummer before.  I usually have trouble picking him out in the crowd when I first hear him - toneless closed-lipped grunts, like he’s honking through his nose… random honks that slowly resolve into groups of notes and eventually into a real song - something chinese, like him, traditional and formal, his voice raised up loudly now through his nostrils, the notes quavering in clear firm vibrato from the wattles of his skinny throat.  Once I pick him out of the crowd, often by following the bemused stares of those around him, he always strikes me as one of those who might or might not be living on the streets.  He wears old clothes, carries a small tightly tied plastic bag, and seems to exist in his own little universe. He’s somewhat irritating, and rather weird, but in general it’s kind of cool to hear him express himself that way with his ancient songs on my garrish modern omnibus. 

He had just started in on the “actual song” portion of his show that day on my ride home when a very angry-sounding homeless guy got on.  He was dressed in tatters; his shoes were more scrap than sole; his backpack was filthy, broken, and erupting with seemingly random pieces of discarded junk.  Most of his teeth were gone and his beard and afro were ratty and spotty.  He was shouting loudly, kicking his way in through a back exit door, howling curses and wordless roars.  His first words on his way down to the back of the bus as he stomped past the Hummer were, “Shut your chinese ass up, I’ll kill you muthafuckah.” For the next ten minutes he ranted and screamed in a raspy guttteral voice at - what?  Demons?  Pain?  Chinese people?  Probably all of the above.  His unbalanced exclamations had shut up the Hummer, who had swallowed his old martial melody into the deep hollow below his lumpy larynx.  The crazy screamer left the bus at Fillmore, bellowing with rage and confusion. The Hummer rode on with us for a few more minutes, but in silence, his little plastic bag dangling from his wrist.

Sorry if the title was misleading.  I figured I’d see if I could boost my readership.  So to speak. 

Hey, you gotta be you--misleading headlines or no.  I suspect the homeless person was just as annoyed about the season finale of Alias as I was.

Well if that doesn’t bring in some hits from google I don’t know what will.

The angry one sounds just like one of our bus drivers.

There we are, sightseeing in the beautiful and diverse Yellowstone National Park. Near the Geothermal wonders of the world when the big grey and maroon tour bus full of chinese people pulls up. A steady stream of people get off, all smiles sputtering remarks we are unable to translate. Each and every one of them has a camera hanging from their necks. But one of them stood apart from the rest. He wore brown pants that fit as well as Dockers on a 22 year old. A little bit of a pudge, but certainly not over weight. Bright yellow shirt that buttoned up the front and of course the ever popular Nikon dangling. His face betrayed his age, brown, smooth skin. His eyes sparkled and really the only wrinkles he had creased the corners of his smiling eyes, making the sparkle in them merrier somehow. The very best of this oratory picture is the bright orange baseball cap perched atop his head, grey tuffs of hair spilling out the sides. And written on the cap, above this charming, sun browned, smiling, friendly face are the words “Worlds Greatest Grandma”