My short absence from work also means it's a vacation from taking public transportation. YAY!
Over on another journal I keep (yes, another one! Y'all aren't getting the full story of my life! Aren't you glad?) I was recently discussing the horrors and tribulations of public transit with a friend who suffers from a similar affliction.
That affliction? That we are simply so attractive and interesting looking that complete strangers feel the need to chat us up and tell us their life stories. Curse my incredible good looks!
I kid. I am certainly not trying to look approachable. Ever since my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Sunday told me not to talk to strangers, I have abided by that rule, except in dire situations such as when I see a girl with a cute handbag or pair of shoes that I wish I had. Then I say "Hey, that's a cute purse!" or "Are those Nine West?" Or when I see a person who is walking around with their fly undone. I'd tell you if you were hangin' low. And if you saw me on the train or on the bus and wanted to do the same, that would be okay. I'd likely duck my head and say "Thanks, I got it on sale." or "Oh my god! I'm so embarrassed that everyone can see I'm not wearing underwear!" But beyond that? I'd prefer you didn't talk to me while I make my daily pilgrimage to the land of newsprint, coffee and copy editing.
And that is why I listen to music on earphones. That is why I read a book. That is why I take my knitting with me. None of the above are conversational pieces. They are activities I partake in to keep my brain occupied so that I don't sit there for the entire hour it takes to get from one end of the city to the other wanting to kill myself because I have to take public transportation.
Get it? I don't want to be here and I certainly don't want to be talking to you. Unless you are a cute guy or a close, personal friend.
And let me clarify that with a further adendum: Close personal friends are people I go for coffee with. They're people I send Christmas cards to. They're people who have, at some point, seen me drunk off my ass or eat food that has fallen on the floor.
They are very likely not you.
They are not people to whom I say "Yes, this is the north train," or "No, I do not have any spare change."
Or maybe I hit my head and forgot about the time I sent a Christmas card to a bleach-blonde, middle-aged, pony-tailed man wearing a moto-cross jacket that he wore when we went out for coffee where I ate something off the floor while drunk off my ass.
Maybe, but I doubt it.
And it wouldn't even bother me if somebody, once in awhile, were to attempt to strike up a conversation with me. HOWEVER, when I have my earphones on and London Calling is spilling out cause the volume is up to 11 AND I'm knitting, that's a sign that I'm too busy to talk to you. But that doesn't stop middle-aged pony-tail. Oh no.
Ponyboy: "Say, is this transfer good?"
Me: (takes earphones off) "Uh... I guess? Yeah. They're good for 90 minutes." (Puts earphones on)
Ponyboy: "Oh good! I gotta go get my truck and I took the wrong train and now I think I'm on the right one."
Me: (takes earphones off) "Oh."
Ponyboy: "So, you headed to work?"
Me: "Yes." (Knits furiously.)
Ponyboy: "Where do you work?"
Me: "Uhhhh.... the newspaper."
Ponyboy: "Cool! So are you a reporter?"
Me: (lying) "No, I just sell ads." (I sneeze.)
Ponyboy: "You got a cold?"
Me: "Yes." (DIES. Turns volume up on earphones.)
Ponyboy: Is silent.
Me: (Puts earphones back on.)
Ponyboy: "What are you listening to?"
Me: (Takes earphones off)"Uh, London Calling."
Ponyboy: "What kind of music is that?"
Me: "You know, The Clash?"
Ponyboy: .....
Me: "Joe Strummer?"
Ponyboy: .....
Me: "Punk."
Ponyboy: "I was down at the Whiskey last night. I saw (some local band I've never heard of)"
Me: "Wow."
Ponyboy: "Yup. They were charging $5.25 for a rye and coke! And not the good rye either!"
Me: (attempting to put headphones back on) "Yeah, it's expensive."
Ponyboy: (Is silent for two minutes)
Me: (Fuck him! I am putting my earphones back on!)
Ponyboy: "So you're knitting a scarf then?"
Me: (#!@%!)"Yes."
Ponyboy: "Well, is this my stop?"
Me: "I don't know(!)"
Ponyboy: "Which one is it?"
Me: (Which one is your stop? How would I know that!?) "It's Barlow/MaxBell."
Ponyboy: "I gotta get my car. I left it at the Boston Pizza."
Me: (I bet you did, tiger.)
Ponyboy: "WHERE'S MY STOOOOPPPP!"
Me: (He's going insane!) "Uh, which stop is yours?"
Ponyboy: "It's the one with the Boston Pizza!"
Me: "I think it's the next one." (It's not.)
Ponyboy: "Yeah? This one?" (Train stops)
Me: "Yeah." (Gently, gentlllly...)
Ponyboy: "Well hey! It was great talking to you!"
Me: "Yeah. Have a good day." (Freaknut.)
Aaaaaaaaand scene!
So, WTF, right? The earphones are the universal symbol of "I don't want to talk to you right now, so take your smell and go somewhere that is else." Why can't people respect the earphones?
And it must be "Talk to strangers on the train" month because the other day, ANOTHER guy decides I'm going to be his fun train friend.
I smelled him before I saw him. A miasma of B.O. and fried something. A guess that was confirmed upon sighting the grease stains on the front of his grey sweat suit, which was carrying an admirable amount of sweat. He sat down across from me, which immediately set off the warning buzzer in my head. There were about 50 other seats available in our car. So... go sit in one of them, dude. Me and my wool are here.
I have my earphones on and this time, it is Franz Ferdinand's You Could Have It So Much Better leaking out inconsiderately for my fellow passengers to hear, demonstrating to one and all that I cannot, in fact, hear their weird mumblings.
I hear him say something about knitting, but I HAVE LEARNED MY LESSON! I do not look up. Knit three, Purl three baby! I gots ta get this scarf done before the end of the week!
He sighs. I hold my breath because honestly? This B.O. is unpleasant and I want to die. I hope he's getting off soon.
Of course, there's no chance of that. Stop after stop and here we sit. He says something else and I am tempted to take off my earphones, just to see if he will be entertainingly crazy or "Hey, this is my stop even though it isn't!" crazy. But my good sense prevails and I continue to knit like mad while his hand inches across the divide between our seats.
Okay. Ew. First of all, he's, like 60, at least. I know I don't look 18 anymore, but I still look young enough to be your granddaughter!
Second, it's 1:00 p.m. If you cannot be arsed to put on a pair of actual pants before heading out to bother people on the train, I don't think the day's going to end well for you unless you had planned to be back on the barca-lounger with a can of pabst by 2 p.m.
Third, a fanny pack? Should be worn on the fanny. NOT on the crotch-ular region. I mean, I am not a fanny-pack connassieur, but I am PRETTY SURE they shouldn't look like some sort of sports support garment. Other things you should look into: A comb. Spot-remover. Deodorant. The end.
I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. I could BE one of those people. On the other hand, maybe if I complain a little harder, the complaint fairy will deposit a shiny new auto in the sadly empty parking space of my heart.
Until then, solidarity fellow train riders. Solidarity.
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