AM: In a group of well-dressed commuters, why does there always gotta be that one homeboy who doesn’t understand the value of a little soap and water? And that one homegirl who thinks the body is meant to marinate in a bathtub full of a cheap knockoff of Chanel No. 5?
PM: I made the terrible mistake of sitting down near the end of the Max on the commute home. Normally I stand, which puts me in the middle of Crazy. I realized that I was no where near anyone who would provide a good story, because I can’t who is getting on and off. The train was almost completely silent. Except for the large man on his cell phone. Talking loudly. About shit NO ONE CARES ABOUT. Listen up, bro: save your obnoxious conversation about who said who and who did what for after you get off the train.
In more exciting news (well, exciting for me) I got attention from three construction workers on the platform. Sadly, no cat calls, but I did get three stares and a head nod. I’ll take it. Also, there was a bald white man dressed in all black carrying a a long leopard print umbrella the fancy kind with a curved wooden handle (not one of those shitty useless pop-out handle contraptions that end up breaking after three uses.) I wanted to ask him what his story was, but as any train rider knows, you just don’t ask anyone any questions on public transportation.
Since I have no ridiculous stories from today, I’ll share the story of the Meth Tweaker at the Lloyd Center from a few weeks ago. He was very tall and skinny, with long blonde frizzy hair, a tight shirt, and even tighter pants that came up above his ankles. Not just any pants, but camo-printed pants. He had a backpack and he was pacing the platform back and forth talking to himself. He stopped to mumble something to a woman who was on a bench with her head in her hands. She screamed at him, “Leave me the fuck alone!” #classy
I glanced over at the four police officers camped on the other side of the platform, one of whom was carrying a semi-automatic rifle. These four officers were inspecting every West bound train that came through. Someone said it was because of 9-11, but I think more likely they were just looking for someone. Either that, or they are really starting to crack down on fares. Nothing says, “buy a ticket asshole” than a cop carrying a semi-automatic. Perhaps that should be their new method of making sure everyone pays their fare.
I figured with members of the PPD nearby that if Meth Tweaker pulled any stunts, all would we okay, so I wasn’t too concerned. The train came, and I boarded, standing near the doors. The train started moving, and I get shoved from behind. Completely startled, I look up and realized I was pushed by Meth Tweaker. I. Was. Touched. By. Meth. Tweaker. The people around me gave me sympathetic looks, with a touch of relief that it wasn’t them who came in contact with this guy. I immediately wanted to take a shower. Thankfully, he got off at the next stop. Likely to pace that platform and perhaps shove others as well. Which really, is quite sad if you think about it. What happened in his life that led him to that point? There is always a story, folks. Everyone has a story.
And speaking of inspecting fares, I got off the train a few days ago and there were three transit cops waiting at the platform, blocking the exit. They were letting people through. I smiled politely and passed by. As I was walking down the ramp, I looked back and saw them asking riders for their fares (sans semi-automatic). I wondered why they didn’t ask for mine. I suspect it’s because I was dressed up for work and look like the kind of broad who pays her fare. Or maybe it was because they saw me coming, and thought in confusion, “Is that a woman or a young boy? The hair is throwing me off. Oh, I see breasts. Definitely a woman. Short hair indicates lesbian. Probably an angry lesbian. Because all women with short hair are man-haters. I don’t want a lawsuit. Better not ask for her ticket.”
Have a great weekend. Until next time, this is the Urban Commuter signing off.