Short Stories of a Similar Profile

Sometimes weird things happen on the bus that aren't really that absurd, just odd (although I do think my bar for absurdity has risen). None of them are really long enough to write a whole entry about, but I think by now I have enough compiled in my brain to write some short stories (if you will) about them.

For example, last Friday I was sitting on the bus, looking out the window, as I prefer to do. We reached a stop. Only one person was waiting to board the bus. He was a medium-height man with a goofy looking face and a trench coat. Anywhere but the bus, this might have looked sketchy, but what used to be feigned indifference is now genuine indifference. I hardly noticed him, until the doors opened and he literally hopped onto the bus. My usually cynical self had a moment of optimism. Instead of being weirded out by his enthusiasm, I saw it as refreshing. Sure, there was something off about him, but he was happy, so whatever. I saw in the reflection of the glass that he sat behind me. Again, whatever. We rode the bus. A few stops later, I felt an intentional pressure on my shoulder, and then something lightly pulling my hair. The man had tapped my shoulder and petted my hair. Slightly alarmed, I turned around.
"You have nice hair. It's wavy." the man said. I thanked him, smiled politely, and turned back to the window. Slightly odd experience, but such is life.

This next one is over a period of time. Some time last semester, space on the bus was limited, so I was sitting directly between two people. This was before I learned to keep my headphones in at all times, so as we approached my stop, I paused my music and put my iPod away.  The man to my right took advantage of this to tell me about his life. The problem was that I didn't understand almost anything he said.  I got that he had at some point served in a military. I don't know if it was the US military, or whatever country he was from (the accent was indistinguishable to me). I understood when he asked me my name, and so I told him my name was Jillian. We had about a 5 minute conversation, but I really don't know what it was about. He didn't smell very good, and he had some teeth missing. I got off the bus a stop early, so I could end the conversation. I felt kind of bad, but mostly relieved to be done with that. A couple months later, I was waiting for the bus to go home after I finished my classes.  I was sitting in the bus stop, when this same man walks up and says very enthusiastically "Hi, Jillian." He still didn't smell very good. I still didn't know what he was saying.  I knew if I got on the same bus as him, he would talk to me until one of us got off. I decided it was worth getting home a little later to avoid that scenario. I made up something about forgetting something, crossed the street, circled the student center, and then went back to the bus stop. He was gone. I haven't seen him since, but part of me expects to see him soon. You could say I'm overdue.

Another time I was sitting there, a man was getting off. I didn't think much of it, since, being a bus, people get on and off it all the time. I was looking at my iPod (on shuffle) to find a song to listen to, when he passed me, and tapped my back. I looked up, surprised. He smiled at me, and got off the bus. Sometimes it's hard to believe that all of these people exist in separate lives, and aren't just the same person. Somehow they manage to startle me every time.

Happy 64th

Wednesday has come and gone, and look at that, no new post! That, my friends, is because Wednesday night (when I usually write these things) was taken over by a community wide celebration of Yom Ha'atzmaut, or Israel's Independence Day. As a tribute to its 64th birthday, I'm going to tell you this week about some experience I've had with buses in Israel.

Israeli drivers are crazy. My teacher (who shall remain nameless unless he asks me to credit him) once joked that the Israeli car is built around the horn, and then parts are added until it moves. The same is true for buses. On TRY (high school semester abroad program. Definitely check it out: here) we rode around in a tour bus.  To start with, the buses there are so much cooler than the ones here. They look like bugs, and they're colorful, which is fun. Speed limits exist in Israel, but I've never known what the standard is, because no one pays attention to them. 

Once, we were in the North. We were going to a kibbutz on a mountain that shared its border with Israel's national border with Lebanon. We were in the region of the country that used to be in Syria, and there were still land mines in the fields on either side of the road. It was absolutely beautiful. At this point in the trip, we had already been there for three months, so we were pretty used to going much faster than is safe. What we weren't used to was doing switchbacks up a mountain in a tour bus at 100 kilometers per hour.  People were holding on for dear life. I thought it was fun. 

Another time we were coming back from Gadna. Gadna is a simulation of what basic training in the IDF is like. For five days you work with your tzevet (troop), learn about IDF ideology, and how to handle weapons and the responsibility that comes with it. At the end of the 5 days, you get to shoot an M16 at a target about 70 meters away. There is an hour of free time every day, where you can shower, grab a snack, get ready for bed, etc. The guys on our trip decided not to shower at all over the course of the week, and most of the girls only showered once or twice. Basically, the trip back home was not the most pleasant thing my nose has experienced. Naturally, we got stuck in traffic. Israel being Israel, many people on the highway got out of their cars and went to the bathroom on the side of the road, a few from our bus included. Some drivers had the brilliant idea to turn around, and drive the other way on the shoulder of the road, causing another traffic jam going the wrong way. after about an hour of beeping and confusion, we finally got going, and about two hours later, we were home and in the showers. 

Public transportation is a whole other story. Maybe I'll talk about it next year. Until then, happy birthday Israel, and may you have many more.

Mona Lisa

Art is a wonderful thing.  Museums are dedicated to it around the world.  Here in Cleveland, I can think of two withing walking distance of each other alone.  I pass them both whenever I ride the Healthline (how's that for a segue?).

The oddities that occur on the bus have become so common that they almost seem normal, and although even today a man was yelling and trying to sell bus tickets simultaneously, I'm going to tell you a story of something truly unusual that happened a couple months ago on my way to school.

The bus was fairly vacant that morning. I was sitting in an open area, with two other girls about my age in the vicinity.  We got to a stop, and the population of the bus practically doubled. A man and a girl got on, talking to each other. I assumed they knew each other.  As they sat down across from me, I realized that the man was doing most of the talking, and the girl didn't seem to know him, or how to react in that situation. She wore an elephant hat.

Out of his giant bag resting in the middle of the isle, the man pulled out a sketch pad and pencil.  He started sketching the girl, and talking furiously, about something of apparently no import.  Skeptical and curious, the other onlookers and I watched him draw, expecting it to be terrible. Surprisingly, it was a very good semblance of the girl. I was impressed; the man obviously had some kind of untreated mental illness, but he also had talent. On my iPod a song came on that I'd gotten as an iTunes free download of the week that I'd never listened to before. It was called "Mona Lisa" by Atlas Sound. Usually I skip it, but the coincidence was so funny I didn't. It's actually a decent song.

 His stop came just as he finished the drawing. As he was fumbling to put his stuff back in his giant bag, I caught a glimpse of the contents. Inside the bag was a giant tank of propane, or something in a similar container.  The doors opened, he wrote his number on the corner of the drawing, told the girl to come in to his studio for a free drawing, yelled at the bus driver to keep the doors open, and got off the bus.

A Man Walked Into A Bar...

Needy people. We all know them. Some of us are them. They come in all shapes and sizes, ask different questions, and are drawn to different people. The one constant between them is that they all annoy the people who have to deal with them. It's not their fault, of course; it's just who they are. Unfortunately, the cause doesn't change the effect, and we still have to put up with them.

Earlier this semester, I was waiting for the bus to come. I was done with all my classes, and in a generally pleasant mood. Listening to my iPod (of course), I wasn't paying tons of attention to everyone around me. A man walks into the bus stop. He goes up to the bartender and asks for a drink. The bartender gives him the drink. The man asks for a napkin. The bartender gives him a napkin. The man asks when lunch is served. The bartender tells him they don't serve lunch. The man asks if the bartender can save his seat. The bartender says no. So it goes. He had a worried sort of expression on his face. He's an older, middle-aged white man, balding with a few whisps of white hair on the sides. He wore an Indian's sweatshirt and faded, ratty, have-been-in-your-wardrobe-since-high-school jeans. He looked at me, but I thought nothing of it, since I was the only other person there at the time.

I saw his lips move. He had asked me something. I took out one earbud, and politely asked "sorry, what?" He wanted to know which way the bus would be going. The way that buses work is that you wait at the bus stop on the side of the street that traffic usually goes. The Healthline is somewhat harder to distinguish downtown, so they put signs on each stop so that people know if the bus is going east or west when they get on. I was utterly confused at this question, because all he had to do was read a sign, or look at the road to know the answer. Not knowing better, I asked him to repeat himself. He must have had an opinion of my intelligence similar to that which I had of his. I told him it was going east. This didn't seem to help him, so I pointed "that way." He thanked me and I hit play.

I pretty much ignored him the rest of the wait, but he kept talking, and I was still the only one there. Over my music, I heard something about his owing his landlord $20, and he didn't know how he was going to pay it back. I felt bad for the man, in the fullest sense of the word pity. The whole time, he seemed as if he was about to start crying. But, there was nothing I could do, so nothing I did.

My New Pen Pall

Happy Leap Day!

This morning started out rainy. I sat through my first class with almost my whole front half damp, except where my raincoat covered. Many people were practical, and brought umbrella's, but I find them to be a hassle, so I usually don't use them. Usually this isn't a problem, because it usually isn't raining. Today, I saw it was raining, and decided my raincoat was enough. You're probably wondering what this has to do with strange people on the bus, and with good reason, because so far it has nothing to do with anything except my otherwise mundane life. I'll tell you: if you don't have an umbrella, you have to stand under the covered area of the bus stop, which severely limits where you can stand. Today, waiting at my bus stop in East Cleveland, I stood under the sheltered area, and met yet another bus character. 

There are two parts that are covered at a Healthline bus stop: One, enclosed, where people can purchase tickets and there are benches; another, which is sheltered by a continuation of the roof on the enclosed area that juts out so it more than doubles the size of the original shelter. I stood under the unenclosed roof. A man stood in the enclosed area. Out of seemingly no where, another man walked up to me under the roof. 

"Can I ask you a question?" He asked. Well, sir, you just did, so while I suppose one question is okay, you've just used up your quota. 

"Um, sure" I said.

"There are these menthol cigarettes (blah blah blah)...do you have any change?" I usually lie, and say no, but today I really didn't have any change, so I honestly said no. "No quarters?" At my head shake: "not even pennies?"

"No, sorry," and I thought I was done. I was mistaken. A car had just pulled up in the parking lot behind us, which isn't unusual, as the bus stop is immediately in front of a shopping strip. The man seemed to take offense to this car, though. 

Except Cleveland doesn't have mountains and it was rainy

"Are those your people?" He asked me. My people? What? Who do you think I am? I told him they weren't. "HEY! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" He yelled at the car. I honestly thought for a second that they were going to shoot at us (East Cleveland and what not). He walked up to the car, and again, I thought I was done; and again I was mistaken. 

He came up to me again. By this time I was fed up with him. 

"Can we be pen palls?" He asked. 

"No."

"No? Oh, okay." And he crossed the street and left.

While having a pen pall might be fun, and I do enjoy writing and receiving letters, I'm not mourning the loss of that potential friend.

Pajama-clad Bums in East Cleveland

Transferring buses. An activity that all should avoid if possible, even if that means taking a slightly longer route to get where you're going. Especially if, like mine, your transfer is in East Cleveland. Imagine: you get on the 40 on the corner of Cedar and Lee, ride it for a while, and then have to get off on the corner of Euclid and Superior. And that's the nice part of East Cleveland: the part with cars regularly driving by, storefronts, and people.

A bus-rider type I neglected to mention last week: the high kid in pajamas. I use the word "kid" liberally. No one actually knows how old he is. Somewhere in the range of 17-24. No one knows where he's going. He gets on the bus, and then gets off at some obscure stop, like E. 66th. There is no real reason to get off there, as the only noticeable feature of the area is an abandoned building being used as a billboard for the Clinic. He smells like a marijuana farm caught flame and he was the unlucky farmer. Another distinguishing feature is his inability to read social cues.

I wish they all wore pajamas like these...

I can count on two hands the number of times I've been sitting inconspicuously, listening to music, and one of these societal failures asks me what time it is. After politely letting him know that it is, in fact 10:13, I go back to listening to music without a smile, or even a spare glance in his direction. Next, he interrupts me again to ask if I "want to be his friend". No. For some unknown reason, I don't really want to be his friend. I'm sure this happens to other people as well. It can also come in the form of asking for directions, when the bus is coming, any kind of question, really.

You're probably wondering how to avoid a situation like this. For you I have some good news, and some bad news. The good news: they're incredibly easy to spot (and smell). They're the ones wearing pajama bottoms, smelling like they haven't showered in a week, and its not uncommon for their hair to be in a form of clothe. (Optional: they also wear those ridiculous, huge headphones around their neck and blast their bad R&B.) The bad news: while easy to spot, they are hard to avoid. Just follow the rules listed in my last post, and you should be good.

All About the Benjamin's

Happy Wednesday Everyone!

 Not everyone knows this, but there are social norms to be followed on the bus, depending on who you are. For example, large men can do pretty much whatever they want, as can old and injured people. Women with kids usually aren't bothered, because no one really likes seeing small kids on a bus. They are encouraged to get on and off the bus as efficiently as they can. Then, of course, there are the crazy people. No one knows what rules govern them, and no one really wants to find out. People like me: unimposing white girls, skinny guys, and Asians are typically the victims of the crazy people on the bus, so we try to go unnoticed; always wearing headphones or ear-buds of some sort, never talking to anyone unless directly addressed, and wearing a look of general unfriendliness and even boredom, so as not to attract any interest in any way, shape, or form from any of the crazies. We fall under the broader category of "regular people," which includes everyone not so far mentioned, but the crazy people like us better. I don't know why. Most frequent riders of the Cleveland RTA (and probably other mass transit services, but I'm no expert) know these rules, and live by them. However, occasionally, you meet a newcomer. And occasionally, a crazy person is waiting at the same bus stop as you.

I walked to the bus stop one morning. It was cold, raining, and grey: a typical Cleveland morning. There were two people inside the sheltered bus stop already, one sitting, one standing. As I approached, I saw more clearly that they were both women; the sitting one, about my age, and the standing one, somewhere in her late fifties or sixties. I put in my ear buds then, as it looked somewhat unpleasant. As I went into the bus stop, I learned that the older woman was ranting madly, with wild gesticulations and the works. She was yelling about how she wants to take her grandson out of the local high school, and start homeschooling him, because he failed a class and the principal blamed him, and not the teachers...or something like that. Usually, when something like this happens, I ignore it until it goes away, but the girl sitting near me wasn't aware of the standard procedure. She had no idea what to do, and I felt bad for her. She said the word; the one word in the world that will allow a ranter to share any information they might feel they have. The simple, disyllabic word that can make an entire bus ride louder, longer, and generally more unpleasant: okay. Naturally, the crazy person continued her rant. The girl and eye exchanged glances, and both looked away, as we were about to start laughing. After what seemed like forever, the bus came, and that was that...

...Until a few weeks ago. I was at the Cleveland Heights public library, renewing my library card. Somewhere behind me, I heard a commotion. A woman was yelling at the librarians, trying to get them to make change for a $100 bill. They said "We don't have that kind of money here. Try somewhere else." She didn't believe them, and walked up to the desk. By this time I was done doing what I needed to do, and as I turned to leave, I saw the woman who had ranted about her grandson, trying to exchange a $100 bill. I still don't know 100%, but I'm pretty sure that was not real legal tender.

The Wheels on the Bus

Sometimes, when I get off the bus, I want to start singing a variation of "The Wheels on the Bus," but I don't, because there are too many possible options (among other reasons). "The crazies on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down"...or "The people on the bus should be institutionalized, institutionalized, institutionalized." Like I said, too many to choose from.

One time in particular stands out. (I've told a lot of people this story in person, so if you know me well and/or talk to me a lot, then you've probably already heard it, and may stop reading now). I was sitting on on the bus, on a particularly crowded morning, on my way to school, when a woman gets on, relatively inconspicuously, and sits down. What you need to realize, is that when I say "relatively inconspicuously," no part of your mind should think that means she looked like a normal person. She had a clear plastic head-wrap-thing (it wasn't raining), a white, puffy coat, and a matching white puffy bag. She sat down relatively close to me, just close enough that she was blocking my view out of the window. To make sure I knew where we were at all times, I had to occasionally turn my head in her general direction in order to see outside. The first time it wasn't a problem. She looked in my direction curiously, because for all she knew, I might have been crazy bus person. We made the awkward eye-contact that so often happens on a bus and then quickly looked away. The second time, she looked at me again, I looked away, satisfied that I was close to my stop. She then said "can I help you?" in one of the most shrill voices I've ever heard. I apologized and explained that I was just looking out the window. At this point she seemed like a paranoid, but not insane person. I turned my music down and started listening, instead of looking for the stops. A few minutes later, I wasn't doing anything: not looking in her direction, not even moving noticeably. I heard from my left (where she was) "will you quit whispering in my ear!" I did not move. I did not acknowledge that there was a person remotely near me. I did not know what to do, so I did nothing. Someone to my right asked her who she was talking to, and she replied "oh, no one. sorry."

I got off the bus that morning, humming the tune to myself, and walked into my Arabic classroom as if nothing happened. Because I would love to forget.

Eileen, the Bus Lady

Hello anyone reading this!

To give you some background, I recently started riding the Cleveland RTA buses regularly in order to comute from Cleveland Heights to downtown Cleveland for school. At least once a week, I would come home with a new story about someone on the bus. The most surprising being when I had a pleasant conversation with someone who seemed kind of normal. A sad fact is that Cleveland has a lot more mental health problems than you might think. While mildly depressing, its also a bit entertaining, and a good topic to tell everyone about. As I like to think most people would do, I messed up a few times trying to maneuver bus schedules, and reading the numbers and routes and stuff, but that's boring. The story I have for you today, is how I befriended a bus person.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I got to the bus stop with about 20 minutes to spare before the bus I needed got there. About 5 minutes after I got there, a woman arrived, and talked to everyone there. She seemed to know everyone; there wasn't a single person who she didn't greet familiarly and tell them about the mundane details of her life. I started wondering: is that going to happen to me? Is this a secret bus-riding community? Is everyone that friendly? Well, this is great, I thought. If I never get a job or a car or anything, I can just join this secret club and engage in polite conversation with people who I wish were strangers... on second thought, maybe not.

One day, there was no one at the bus stop except for that lady (at that point, and for a while on, she would remain nameless) and me. Naturally, she introduced herself. Well, kind of. She lit a cigarette and said, "never get in this habit. I'm trying to stop." I politely agreed, and continued to mind my own business while avoiding breathing in as long as I could manage. That day, I learned that she was 34 years old, and was going to the College of Bryant and Stratton to get her business associate's degree.  In the bus rides to follow, I would learn that she has a son, who would be turning 6 on November 19th (2011), his party would be held at Chuck E. Cheese, and I was welcome to come, and bring any younger siblings I might have (as much as I thought my 14 year old sister might enjoy herself, I decided not to attend). She sees no need to get a driver's license, as she takes the bus everywhere. She "feels more alert" when she's high (as told to me while she was high). One thing you should know: I did not ask questions. She told me all of this unsolicited information for who knows what reason.

The last thing I learned about her was that her name is Eileen. That day was an interesting one. Waiting at the first bus stop, she was incredibly talkative, friendly, in a seemingly very good mood, and of course, high. That was when she told me her name, and asked me mine. We rode the bus until the right stop, and got off to transfer to the Healthline. Everyone J-walks across Euclid. Crossing the street, she saw a police car, and commented on how we were going to get in trouble for J-walking. It was already too late to go to the crosswalk, so I kept walking. The police car pulled up in front of us and reprimanded us for it. I apologized and walked around the car. Eileen, however, said something along the lines of: well why don't you have the courtesy of not stopping in front of us?" This was one of the stupidest things I've ever heard anyone say. They asked her for ID, and she missed the bus that day.

Two things have changed since that day. I am now the only person who does not J-walk across Euclid, and Eileen hasn't made an appearance on my route, which I'm pretty much okay with.