Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Shuttle Stories
In the festival of delights that is my life these days, I seem to have lost an entire rather lengthy post. In it I described in great detail my activities over the past few weekends, including more than ten shows I saw with many friends - old ones, new ones, and long-lost ones - at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass; now I’ll just let you look the damn stuff up yourself. Then I mentioned the wonderful afternoon we spent with Chantel and her friends on a rooftop in Fishergraph Hill, eating hamburgers and drinking adult beverages (except for zach) and eating crispy chocolate freakout bars and watching the Blue Angels and other airborne entertainments at the annual airshow. And I also talked a bit about the wonderful Yom Kippur services I attended, which were heartful and fulfilling. I even mentioned the candied pumpkin I’m making (even at this moment).
IT IS ALL GONE. I logged in this evening and find I have posted nothing since last friday. Bless you, god of blog, for eating my goddamn post. I’ve got something else for you to eat if you dare show your stupid face around here anytime soon. Which is to say, I’m going to re-transcribe the heart of my post from earlier today, which I hope you enjoy now that I’m typing it again for the second time. It’s because I care, you jerks. So read carefully and I’ll come back with a pop quiz, just as soon as I get a working phone number for your pop. He’s a sneaky one, isn’t he?
It’s not that there are no stories on the new bus. Even as I first noticed its relative dearth of human interest (compared, at least, to my prior route), I suspected that there was more going on than was meeting my untrained eye, and that time would soon sensitize me to the little dramas playing out around me even on my boring-ass shuttle ride to work.
I was right, too - the stories are there, they just play out smaller, or faster. You’ve got to keep your eyes open on that 8 am downtown shuttle. The buses are comfortable and the windows are heavily tinted, so it’s easy to lose focus. And when you do, you miss things like this:
Tuesday morning broke sunny and muggy. The bus was cruising inbound on Lombard, past endless little motels and eateries. As we approached an intersection and came to a red-light stop, I saw a little covey of joggers pounding their way up the side street. In true Marina fashion, they were slender, mostly blond, young, and stylishly kitted out in sharp jog togs. They arrived at the corner as their traffic control turned yellow and paused for their signal, still cantering in place, each still personifying the “fresh-n-beautiful” aesthetic that is the hallmark of those privileged precincts.
Perpendicularly came the hooker. She was short and skinny, with dangerously tall shoes and a black dress that barely concealed her merchandise. She looked good so far as that went, which wasn’t really very far when you got a look at her face, which was sufficiently pretty but unappealingly set in a grim and flinty scowl under her makeup and flouncy hair cut. She walked swiftly, as if on her way somewhere to which she was already seriously late, and the bright sunlight seemed to leave her in a shadow of her own making.
She reached the corner at the same time as the joggers, arrested in her walk of shame by an ironic red light. She kept her eyes mostly down and shifted her weight from foot to platform-heeled foot, as if the sidewalk was electrocuting her. The joggers, still prancing like Lipizzaners, gaped openly and slowly ceased moving. For a moment, five hot joggers in spandex and eyeliner stood flatfooted and gawked at the whore, her face rigidly emotionless. A world stood between them on that corner. Two seconds later the light changed again and the bus rolled on.
Or:
It was a heavy morning for my little shuttle. All the seats filled up early and still the people kept piling on, all dressed for downtown offices, each wearing a carefully-crafted visage of dour self-absorption. I watched them as they filled the aisle next to me, all full of vinegar and coffee. The last to board at the start of the ride was a young man in a fitted business shirt and serious office slacks. Tall, broadshouldered, and slim-waisted, his chiseled jaw was shaded faintly with stubble and his thick hair was neatly styled. His eyes glinted as he made his way halfway down the aisle and took his place as the lead stand-ee, turning firmly on his heel to face forward as is the practice hereabouts.
The doors closed and we rolled off to the next stop, where another small crowd was waiting for us. The first to board was a slim young woman in trousers and blouse, her hair held back with a practical ring of elastic, her understated makeup putting a delicate blush on her sleepy, unsmiling cheeks. As she came on board and noticed he next to whom she’d have to stand in the aisle, the drowse quickly faded from her face and the apathy evaporated from her small body. She took a spot standing at a proxemically-appropriate distance from him and rotated into the proper front-facing orientation, a modest 18 inches or so separating her from the beefcake at her back.
Still more commuters piled in and the aisle was filled quickly, forcing all those standing in it to crowd up a little more. Mr. Studly took a step to the rear, and the woman in front of him hazarded a quick glance back to see where she was in relation to him. People were bunching up near the door; she owed it to them to scootch a bit further back too. A step and a half brought her into his immediate proximity; her shoulderblades were nearly brushing his burly pectorals and his large hands hung quietly right next to her hips He clenched his jaw and, with infinite patience, sighed softly, waiting for us to get moving again. Her back so intimately close to him that she could surely feel the heat of his flesh through their clothes, she couldn’t help grinning broadly with illicit delight at the gift fate had brought her that morning.
That’ll have to do for now. Best of luck with your respective Thursdays. Mine promises to be a fresh coat of paint on the same old nard-vise. You know how familiarity breeds contempt? I’m getting real familiar with being busy. And if I don’t get a chance to tell you in person, have a refreshing Festival of Tabernacles. No, really!