A Composite Bus Story from one day last summer ...

It is sometimes easier to just take the transfer ticket from the bus driver.

It was 840am. I was late for work. Again. It was my own damn fault. All this, in spite of significant efforts on my part to preclude it happening. Basically, as a morning person, I suck. There were three alarms set in my bedroom set in different spots; one of which actually required me to get out of bed. Yet, I still ended up back in bed hitting two snooze alarms until I had inadvertently turned them all off and overslept. Again. I suck. I wish I would have been drinking or partying last night, I would actually feel better about being so stupid - pronounced stoo-pid - this morning.

It was like one of those dystopian future science fiction movie scenes; people looked dull and grey, lifeless. They all lived a long way from where they worked, since few of them were paid enough to live near their place of employment. The collective depression was clear and it was transferring to me. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

There was one guy though; late 20s, smug looking, married, reading about Winston Churchill and occasionally glancing at me and others with clear disdain. He hated the bus, not just due to the long ride, but because of the riders he clearly did not think himself the same as. He strikes me as a follower, told what he believes. Is that too harsh of me? I care not at this point since I find myself studying him. He looks neutered. I simply don't like him based on appearances. This is unlike me.

And then there was the other guy. He was huge; tall and wide, an imposing but gentle enough looking giant of a man. The bus was full enough that he did not get a seat, but he would have needed at least two more then the one most people take up just for all the stuff he was carrying. He was juggling his bags and his big coat in order to get his phone and headset on to make a call. He's loud. He's a hazard. The call reception is crap. Finally sort of settled on the rear door step he keeps trying to make the call yet they simply cannot hear him on the other end so they apparently tell him to call later, which he should have just done in the first place. Unless it was truly life and death the call could have been placed in just a few minutes off the bus at the station. Life before faxes and cell phones was and emails was slower, in part because it had to be. As we can get stuff quicker, we seem to think it needs to be immediate. Most things can wait.

And then it was my stop and I had to try and get past the big guy in the aisle and excuse myself as my ass nearly goes in the face of the smug guy as I go by.

I still had not concocted my excuse for being late.

One of the funny things about working nights for the large faceless insurance corporation I used to work for was that when people would call in sick they would call the general 800 number and then ask to be transferred to a manager's voice mail. It was amazing how many people could sound fine one minute and near death when the voice mail kicked on. I am not one of those people. Instead, I just tell the truth, sorry, and then shorten my lunch and stay an extra fifteen minutes at the end of the day.

It was my own damn fault.