Before you say anything, person who signs my checks, I think you need to know a few things.
First: My car is currently having some serious car surgery for a number of reasons that are not my fault. I know you’re a busy man, but I am going to explain them to you anyway. I drive a 1990 Toyota Corolla which, as you know, is a very sexy car. It’s a little older than me, aged like a fine, red, oddly-proportioned wine that used to belong to my grandparents. Anyway, because of that, the “change oil” light never came on and I never changed the oil.
So naturally my car stalled on the 10 right before the Western exit, which is a terrible place to stall. We had it towed to a shop and they said they’ll fix it, but that it will be the opposite of “free or at least very cheap,” so I’ve been taking the bus to work in the meantime.
What bus, you ask? The 33 Metro Transit bus, the absolute bottom of the barrel when it comes to public transit in Los Angeles. If Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness and All-Around Crappy Guy, had to choose one type of bus to transport people to the gates of Hell, it would probably be this bus, but it would also probably get there 20 minutes late and be standing room only. It’s a terrible bus. It is the watery diahrrea of buses. The hangnail of public transit, if you will.
So let me weave you a tale. No, wait. When I say it like that, it sounds fake, which it wasn’t.
Let me weave you a very true account of something that happened to me this morning.
I left my boyfriend’s apartment (10 minutes away, including traffic) a solid 20 minutes before my scheduled shift this morning — in case you were wondering. I hopped on the 33 with plenty of time to grab you a coffee from the Starbucks across the street from work.
The bus was filled with people, including a homeless man with a weathered Nike duffel bag full of what appeared to be socks and a man with a composition book full of Bible quotes written in it with a serial killer-esque scrawl.
So two stops up from mine, an older woman tried to leave from the back door of the bus. She was a small woman with that short, trapezoidal raspberry colored hair every woman in Los Angeles over the age of 50 has. She was on the phone, deep in conversation when we arrived at her stop. She didn’t realize it until the doors were closing, and she tried to jump through with two large Trader Joe’s bags. The door clipped her ankle. Gently, I might add.
This was a bad call.
“Hold on,” she said to the person on the other end of the phone, then promptly put the phone in her pocket and marched to the front of the bus.
And, as mad as I am that I’m late, you have to admire the balls it takes to put your old-lady friend on hold while you go try to fight a city government employee.
So there we all were, powerless, watching as this woman stood at the front of the bus, keeping the doors open and the driver unable to pull away from the curb. She started small, berating the driver and jabbing him in the shoulder like a misbehaving grandchild. Then she brought out the big guns: A very tiny notebook and some reading glasses. She wanted everything.
His employee number.
His supervisor.
The number of the bus he was driving.
His childhood home address, probably.
She turned and looked to us for support and got none. We all had places to be. We didn’t want to wait around giving a witness statement to this woman for her to spend another 15 minutes writing in tiny, perfect cursive that they don’t teach kids in school anymore. She was up shit creek without a paddle, so to speak, until a voice came from the back of the bus.
“I saw the whole thing,” said the homeless man with the Nike bag full of socks. But, to be fair, he had also spoken loudly about “The Government” making him fail his drug tests by getting him high via free Starbucks WiFi.
And that is when I hopped off the bus and walked the last two blocks here. It is a miracle that I made it here at all.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I forgot to clock in.
