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| The bus stop at Wilshire and Vermont |
I suppose this all depends upon whether or not you believe in the concept of a Heaven and/or a Hell. I do.
I suppose, well no, I know that my belief in these other-worlds stems from my maternal grand-parents. My mother's parents were Seventh Day Adventists. Say what you will, but they were firm believers in their religion, in God and in Jesus. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, not the guy who fixed our Sears electric lawn mower. An electric lawn mower. Think about that for a second. Anyway, or, anyhoozle as my girlfriend loves to say, I distinctly remember being told with emphatic gravitas by my cousin that Catholics, Jews, Protestants and all non-believers were going to Hell. This glean came about one day when my mother, my cousin and I were at my great-uncle's house in Santa Rosa. It was a Sunday and we had just enjoyed a red onion sandwich made with red onions fresh from my great-uncle's small ranch, now a strip mall. We were in the living room and I was reading the Sunday comics. I think I was ten as my parents were still married. I was sitting in my great-uncle's La-Z-Boy when my cousin, sitting on the couch, pointed to the newspaper in my hands and said, "You know, if you read comics, you're going to Hell." That's when I got the check-list of all those who would be joining me. Some time later my mother related a story from her childhood when she and her sister were listening to a Beatle's 45 (remember those?) and their father marched into the living room, snatched the offending mini-record from the turn table (part of a complete entertainment system that had, are you sitting down? an 8-track player!), summarily broke it into pieces, marched the offending pieces outside and tossed them into the garbage. Why? Do I even need to ask? Devil's music.
It wasn't conspicuously heavy-handed; there were Saturday morning bible studies (Seventh Day Adventists do whacky things like celebrate the Lord's Day on Saturdays. This was another thing my cousin pointed out to me; worshipping the Lord's Day on Sunday was a certain indicator that you were going to Hell), there were those overly-dramatic and biased movies we would watch in the church about the Crusades (Jesus won, BTW), and the not-too-completely-terrifying "free" hand-out pamphlets which depicted sinners writhing in a giant inferno of agony. Nothing too overt. Never the less, an indelible impression was made, and to this day, God help me, I still believe in an afterlife. What afterlife is left to be discovered, but there it is.
I like to think of myself as at least somewhat gallant. I always hold the door for women, I always say things like, "Bless you" when people, even men, sneeze, and I always give up my seat on the bus or subway to women. At least I used to do these things before I became a regular commuter.
On the way into work I take the Metro Red Line to Vermont and Sunset and from there catch either a Metro 720 or 920 into Westwood. On the return home I like to get crazy and mix things up; I cross the street and catch a Metro 761 into the Valley and catch a Metro Orange Line back home. When I began doing this in September of last year, I was still a neophyte at this whole commuting thing. A newbie trying to figure out how long it took to take certain trains and buses, how to make certain connections, where to catch certain buses and trains and when. Back then I still had a certain amount of pride and chivalry. Not anymore. At least when it comes to commuting.
When I first began taking the 761 back to the Valley, I would step aside and let the women board first. I remember one time a man tried to shove past as I was gallantly letting all the women board first. I stuck my arm in front of him, looked him in the eye and said, "I'm holding the door, but not for you." What I did not understand in my bold naivety was that the business of getting on the bus or the subway is a business. A business of first come, first serve. This may not seem overly important, but if you have a ways to travel and/or if you are tired and just want to catch a few minutes of shut-eye, then getting at least a seat, and more importantly, a seat next to a window, is of vital importance. And here's why.
If you want to get a quick nap in before work or on the way home, it is nearly impossible to do so sitting in the aisle seat; inevitably your head will roll to one side or the other and you will either collapse into the aisle or into the person sitting next to you, neither option being particularly appealing. The better position is on the outside, next to the window, so you can rest your head and try to get in a few winks. This can be hard if not impossible traveling down Wilshire or Santa Monica Boulevard when the bus is jumping and shaking so badly your fillings are falling out of your head. It's also hard on summer days if your side of the bus happens to be on the sunny side (another thing to position for when trying to get a seat on the bus; stay away from the sunny side-everyone else does). So you need to try to get an outside seat and one that is hopefully out of the sun. Another reason for getting the outside seat; if the bus fills-up with women you are physically prevented from offering them your seat. A bullshit excuse to be sure, but one that at least allows me a modicum of sleep at night. At least I'm not as bad as the guys who pretend to be asleep when women are standing on the bus; if I'm on the inside, I still do get up and offer them my seat. I try my best to glare at the other men still sitting in their seats, but they do a damned good impression of being asleep and so seem to be immune to my glare.
However, as weasely as that tactic may be, it's not the thing that's going to punch my ticket to Hell. That E-ticket (remember those?) comes with what happens when I board busses and after I'm safely ensconced. As I mentioned, I usually catch the Metro 761 northbound home at nights. The 761's final terminus is in Pacoima. Turns out a lot of people who live in Pacoima take the 761 northbound at the same time as I. Almost all of them are women, almost all of those women are Hispanic, and nearly all of those are small, their heads coming up to about my elbows. Which makes them extremely difficult to body block; they dart under my arms with amazing ease.
As I mentioned above, getting the outside seat is key, especially on longer trips. I am now a savvy veteran of the LA commuting scene and I know how to bide my time for the bus; watch the traffic in front of it and don't commit to a specific spot on the sidewalk as the bus may stop anywhere and open its doors. You need to be alert, flexible and quick in order to get on the bus before the others (and by others, here I mean the literal masses of short Hispanic women). And you need to have enough lack of pride and shame to dip an elbow here and there to ensure that you get that coveted outside seat. I'm not saying that I clothesline anyone, nor even a stiff arm, I'm just admitting to an occasional blockage of someone else's forward momentum that would otherwise vault them in front of me and therefore give them the coveted outside seat. And by anyone, here I mean short Hispanic women.
But that's not all. Oh no, my ignoble descent into Hell will be capped by my thoughts regarding the elderly and the handicapped. When I get on the bus, all I want to do is get to my destination as quickly as possible. People asking questions of the driver which prevent us from continuing on, accidents, emergency vehicles, the bus driver waiting for someone as they sprint across the street when the driver could have closed the doors and continued on, all of these things aggravate me. I try not to let them, I have enough problems, really I do. But, to put it nicely, I'm a little wound-up (hence this blog), and these things can and do get to me. I know they shouldn't, really I do. But what really gets to me, and this is the thing I am convinced has got me a spot, standing of course, on the Metro 666 Bus to Hell, is what happens when the elderly and handicapped board the bus.
In case you've never ridden a bus in the USA these days, they are all what is known as "kneeling buses". That is, then can hydraulically lower the right front side so that that edge of the bus is near level with the sidewalk, and then, with an annoying "Bee-do, bee-do, bee-do", a hydraulic ramp unfolds and extends to the sidewalk, creating a mechanical ramp for the elderly and handicapped to ease their way onto the bus. Great, you may be thinking, isn't that a thoughtful and, dare I say it, benevolent thing to do for the elderly and handicapped? Sure it is. I'm not arguing that. But when all you want to do is get to work or get home or get to the bar, or get wherever, then the last thing you want to hear is that "Bee-do, bee-do, bee-do" because you know, you know that not only do you have to wait while the hydraulic ramp extends, the person gets on, people are forced to move as seats are folded and wheelchairs locked into place, you will eventually have to do this all over again when that same person gets off the bus. And they always have to get off the bus before you do. It just works out that way.
So, I was on the 720 heading into work one morning when, I shit you not, the bus stopped for not one, not two, but three handicapped people. It was clearly impossible for me to get any sleep, and at the herald of the third round of "Bee-do, bee-do, bee-do", somewhat unconsciously I said aloud, "You have got to be kidding me!" Two other people looked over at me and muffled a laugh.
At least I won't be alone when I show my bus pass to Hell.
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