Kamran’s simulated crash face does not in any way reflect how our trip to Atlantic City on Greyhound’s Lucky Streak Bus went:
However, this is a fairly accurate portrayal of his feelings toward wearing a seatbelt on public transportation:
A full report is forthcoming.
I know you thought my blogs were totally useless, but because of one of these Internet gems, Greyhound has invited me (and a guest!) to take a trip to Atlantic City today to try out their new fleet of buses equipped with amenities like wi-fi, electrical outlets, and additional legroom that I’ll fill with many bags full of family-sized shampoo bottles and other things I couldn’t bring if I was on a plane.
They’re putting us up in one of the casinos, slathering us in spa services, and hosting a meet-and-greet with other bloggers that they’re calling “Top of the Trop” and which I will hopefully endure the entirety of by tippling champagne with Kamran in a corner. I’m extremely excited, as this will only be the second time I’ve been to a hotel with him in the three and a half years we’ve been dating, if you don’t count all of those initial months when we were meeting up at the Four Seasons every weekend for illicit activities.
Kidding.
Anyway, Greyhound will be taking a look at my Twitter tomorrow to see what sort of nonsense I tweet about my trip (pretty awesome that I broke down and signed up for that jazz a week ago, right?), just to warn you, it may contain nothing but
1) lyrics to “The Wheels on the Bus”,
2) pictures of stupid vanity license plates, and
3) mentions of Kamran accidentally letting out a little pee every time we go over a pothole.
My boyfriend lives right beside the United Nations building on the East River, so every time some unwanted politician blows into town, we feel the effects more than most New Yorkers. Yesterday morning, I walked out of his apartment building to find a tow truck pulling cars off the street, cops milling everywhere with especially cute and not-at-all-threatening dogs, the sidewalks lined with metal barriers, and 42nd Street blocked off to cars. Which meant that the bus I lazily use to take me the three stops to Grand Central wasn’t running.
I’ve only seen this guy a few times before on the bus, but I’ve felt sorry for whoever was next to him every time. He’s The Talker, the stranger who doesn’t shut up and doesn’t realize that everyone’s secretly plotting his demise. The first time I saw him chatting some lady’s ear off in the front seat while she sat flipping through a magazine, I thought, “What a jerk! How could she just ignore him like that?!”
But then he came and sat by me on Tuesday. I didn’t recognize him at first and didn’t think anything about it when it took him an abnormally long time to board the bus because he was talking to the driver. People ask the driver questions all the time. But then I watched as he talked to apparently no one all the way back the aisle to the seat right next to me. I quickly considered my options and decided that moving away was ruder than simply pretending I didn’t hear him, so I stared straight ahead until he was silent.
A minute later, he looked over at me and said perfectly-sanely, “Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but do you know how many stops it is to 6th Avenue?” Thinking I had misjudged him and that it was safe, I answered, “About five.” And then the floodgates opened.
On Saturday evening, Kamran and I reached the M15 stop at 42nd Street to see we’d just missed the bus. As we were the only ones at the stop, we entertained ourselves with rhyming games and musings about what sort of present we could buy at a convenience store to bring to the Williamsburg birthday party we were on our way to.
After a few minutes, a woman with a very stylish short haircut made her way down the street and politely stood a few feet away from us to wait. An older gentlemen in a pink button-down dress shirt and an orange tie came and stood beside her a few minutes later. A couple of grannies rolled up together a second later and pretended to be looking at the map on the bus stop pole, but it was pretty clear they were just trying to ditch us to be first into the bus, so Kamran told me to be wary of getting hit over the head with a purse or walking cane when the bus pulled up.
We all spotted the bus as it popped over the hill at 43rd Street at the same time, and the unease in the air was palpable as we all prepared ourselves for the inevitable chaos of boarding. Usually I appreciate it when the bus driver doesn’t pull all of the way up to the pole that marks the stop, because the people standing there are rarely the ones who have been waiting the longest, but this driver didn’t pull up far enough.
He stopped right in the middle of the crowd, leaving us to separate ourselves into two groups on either side of the door. On the left side was the nicely-haircutted woman, the old man in pink and orange, and this other man who had appeared out of nowhere in rolled-up jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt. On the right was the potentially-lethal pair of ladies, Kamran, and me.
Haircut went into the bus first, which was, you know, incorrect but acceptable, considering that she arrived shortly after we did and perhaps didn’t remember who was there first. I took a step forward to make it clear that I was next, and I know Sleeveless T-Shirt saw me, because he stepped forward after I did and then looked at me for my next move
My next move, of course, was to step onto the bus. Apparently he wasn’t pleased with this checkmate, though, because he took advantage of the extra-wide doorway and clambered onto the bus right beside me. I was totally weirded out. I mean, I may curse about people who hurry past me into the bus during rush hour, but this was 8 p.m. on a weekend. And it was a double-long bus, so there was no chance there wasn’t going to be room for him. Plus, I was there first.
I didn’t even have a chance to think about what to do. What came naturally was to shove all 145 pounds of him back out of the bus, all the while saying, “Oh, excuse me! Oh, pardon me!” in my sweetest voice. The adrenaline rush was insane.
But as fun as that was, the greatest part of the situation was that the guy then turned to Kamran, evidently unaware that we were together. (Or aware and unafraid.) He made a face of incredulity and yammered something unintelligible that was clearly meant to convey how much he wanted me dead. Kamran, of course, didn’t sock him in the jaw as he should have, but he did politely remind him to mind the other people in line first next time.
(also posted on Examiner)
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