Sometimes I miss taking the bus.
The buses in Phoenix aren't mass transit vehicles as much as they are asylums on wheels. Without fail, every time I was on the bus, I was on the bus where the crazy people were grouped en masse. Granted, anyone who has ridden one bus in the Valley can tell you that there are some batshit crazy folk on board, but when I say crazy, I mean people who are tap-dancing on the edge of a deep, near-Lovecraftian dementia. To make matters worse, the crazies seemed to feel a kinship with me, because they would always make a beeline towards me and engage me in conversation. As a writer, I always rejoiced at these moments: story potential!quirky characters!general wackiness!!! As a guy just riding from Point A to Point B and wanting his peace, I dreaded these moments. What made these weird communions with the busfolk even more unnerving is that I display no outward signs of kookiness. Most of my tattoos are covered up, I dress in simple clothes, maintain proper hygeine, and in all respects project an aura of sanity, an aura of I-got-my-shit-together-ness. And yet... every time I stepped on the 72 or the 106 or the 44 or the 81, I would be greeted with looks from the kooky people on the bus, looks that said "FRESH MEAT!" and "ONE OF US! ONE OF US!" I don't take the bus now because I'm so close to work I can just walk, and I plan on getting back on the road with a car again soon, so hopefully my days of bus riding with the droolies and crazies is over. So I'm now going to wax nostalgic about some of my favorite Bus People...
-Cop Killa: an old lady, frumpy, boxy body, always sat towards the end of the bus. She would rock back and forth on her knees, muttering so softly to herself that I couldn't make out what she was saying. When I got close enough, I heard plenty: "the only good cop is a dead cop". She repeated over and over again. I silently prayed to gods I don't believe in that she wouldn't get off on the same stop I got off on. She did, proving that the gods hate me.
-Orange Ken: got out of prison a couple of years, worked as a bellboy at a hotel, claimed to have converted to Wicca in the pen. After conversing for a while, he confessed to being a member of a secret society that had discovered a herbal cancer cure. Apparently, their founding members discovered a plant in South America with this magical cancer-killing power and smuggled it into the U.S., hiding it from the pharmaceutical companies (who he claimed had assassins looking for them). He went on how to describe how they hide the cure in their freezers, passing it down generation by generation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he believed every word of what he was saying.
-Mad Martin: big Polynesian dude, wore a big black overcoat. We discussed our mutual interest in the occult (he saw me reading an Aleister Crowley book), and all seemed well. He even told me his plans for starting a band that would (in his words) be a mix of "Marvin Gaye and Nine Inch Nails". Loverman S&M music still sounds like a great idea to me. Shortly after saying this, he dropped a bomb on me: he claimed to be the lover of Lilith. As in the goddess Lilith. He insisted on making love to her every night in his backyard in Tempe. I thought he was being metaphorical at first, but he was very insistent that he realllly meant THE Lilith. Every night. Then he launched into a monologue about the extent of his mental powers, about how he can change the weather with a thought, make someone change their mind with a glance. At this point, I was desperately seeking any way of aborting this conversation and getting off the bus. No such luck, I was at Mad Martin's mercy for another ten red lights.
-Eagle Speaks: hands-down the greatest crazy the Bus People have ever produced. I was coming back from Tempe towards Scottsdale after a morning of ASU classes. I was listening to the Pogues "Rum, Sodomy, And The Lash", lost in a reverie, when a big shadow loomed over me. A big dude sat next to me, asking me if I liked music. I said yes, and he told me he was into music. And he was a dancer. The man was a huge Native American dude, in his early 50s, his skin the color and wrinkly texture of a strip of beef jerky. He had a tattoo of a head-dress wearing chief on his right leg (creepily enough, the wrinkles on the tattooed chief's face perfectly matched the wrinkles on his leg), gripped a long can of Arizona iced tea in his left hand, and wore a large pair of sunglasses (Ferris Bueller glasses). His name was Eagle Speaks. He told me he was going up to Tucson to take part in a hoop-dancing contest. He asked if I wanted to come with him (I respectfully declined). We traded polite conversation for a little, and then, like Orange Ken and Mad Martin, he dropped an A-bomb on me. He said he felt bad for the plight of his people, but soon it would all be over and things would be good again. I asked him what he meant by that. He replied "because in two years the Chinese will invade the U.S., take over the country, and free my people". HE WAS SERIOUS. Trying hard to maintain my composure, I asked him why the Chinese would come over here just to free his people. His reply? "We pray to the earth... and our prayers travel through the earth, and come out in China, where they can hear our cries". Yes, the man was using Looney Tunes logic, thinking that his prayers would pull a Bugs Bunny and dig their way to Hong Kong. I thought he was putting me on, but he vibed completely sincere. I have a talent for listening and making people think that I take them seriously (even when I don't), so we kept talking. He started talking about his many illegitimate children, boasting about his sexual prowess, expressed his opinion that asian pussy was the best pussy, and made himself out to be the ultimate lady's man (even though he was uggggggggggggggly as sin), and even claimed to have ties with Hollywood and said I had star potential. I kept nodding and smiling; at this point, most of my mind has been short-circuited, and I'm running on polite autopilot. He gets off the bus before me, leaving me to spend the last fifteen minutes of my bus ride perplexed, confounded, and more than a bit worried about why out of all the people on the bus, he singled me out to be his choir, his attentive Dr. Freud.
And that is why I miss Arizona buses, despite their constantly being late, breaking down, having non-existent A/C, and being piloted by the rudest motherfuckers in the state. In spite of all that, the crazy people made it allllllllllllllllllll worthwhile.
The buses in Phoenix aren't mass transit vehicles as much as they are asylums on wheels. Without fail, every time I was on the bus, I was on the bus where the crazy people were grouped en masse. Granted, anyone who has ridden one bus in the Valley can tell you that there are some batshit crazy folk on board, but when I say crazy, I mean people who are tap-dancing on the edge of a deep, near-Lovecraftian dementia. To make matters worse, the crazies seemed to feel a kinship with me, because they would always make a beeline towards me and engage me in conversation. As a writer, I always rejoiced at these moments: story potential!quirky characters!general wackiness!!! As a guy just riding from Point A to Point B and wanting his peace, I dreaded these moments. What made these weird communions with the busfolk even more unnerving is that I display no outward signs of kookiness. Most of my tattoos are covered up, I dress in simple clothes, maintain proper hygeine, and in all respects project an aura of sanity, an aura of I-got-my-shit-together-ness. And yet... every time I stepped on the 72 or the 106 or the 44 or the 81, I would be greeted with looks from the kooky people on the bus, looks that said "FRESH MEAT!" and "ONE OF US! ONE OF US!" I don't take the bus now because I'm so close to work I can just walk, and I plan on getting back on the road with a car again soon, so hopefully my days of bus riding with the droolies and crazies is over. So I'm now going to wax nostalgic about some of my favorite Bus People...
-Cop Killa: an old lady, frumpy, boxy body, always sat towards the end of the bus. She would rock back and forth on her knees, muttering so softly to herself that I couldn't make out what she was saying. When I got close enough, I heard plenty: "the only good cop is a dead cop". She repeated over and over again. I silently prayed to gods I don't believe in that she wouldn't get off on the same stop I got off on. She did, proving that the gods hate me.
-Orange Ken: got out of prison a couple of years, worked as a bellboy at a hotel, claimed to have converted to Wicca in the pen. After conversing for a while, he confessed to being a member of a secret society that had discovered a herbal cancer cure. Apparently, their founding members discovered a plant in South America with this magical cancer-killing power and smuggled it into the U.S., hiding it from the pharmaceutical companies (who he claimed had assassins looking for them). He went on how to describe how they hide the cure in their freezers, passing it down generation by generation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he believed every word of what he was saying.
-Mad Martin: big Polynesian dude, wore a big black overcoat. We discussed our mutual interest in the occult (he saw me reading an Aleister Crowley book), and all seemed well. He even told me his plans for starting a band that would (in his words) be a mix of "Marvin Gaye and Nine Inch Nails". Loverman S&M music still sounds like a great idea to me. Shortly after saying this, he dropped a bomb on me: he claimed to be the lover of Lilith. As in the goddess Lilith. He insisted on making love to her every night in his backyard in Tempe. I thought he was being metaphorical at first, but he was very insistent that he realllly meant THE Lilith. Every night. Then he launched into a monologue about the extent of his mental powers, about how he can change the weather with a thought, make someone change their mind with a glance. At this point, I was desperately seeking any way of aborting this conversation and getting off the bus. No such luck, I was at Mad Martin's mercy for another ten red lights.
-Eagle Speaks: hands-down the greatest crazy the Bus People have ever produced. I was coming back from Tempe towards Scottsdale after a morning of ASU classes. I was listening to the Pogues "Rum, Sodomy, And The Lash", lost in a reverie, when a big shadow loomed over me. A big dude sat next to me, asking me if I liked music. I said yes, and he told me he was into music. And he was a dancer. The man was a huge Native American dude, in his early 50s, his skin the color and wrinkly texture of a strip of beef jerky. He had a tattoo of a head-dress wearing chief on his right leg (creepily enough, the wrinkles on the tattooed chief's face perfectly matched the wrinkles on his leg), gripped a long can of Arizona iced tea in his left hand, and wore a large pair of sunglasses (Ferris Bueller glasses). His name was Eagle Speaks. He told me he was going up to Tucson to take part in a hoop-dancing contest. He asked if I wanted to come with him (I respectfully declined). We traded polite conversation for a little, and then, like Orange Ken and Mad Martin, he dropped an A-bomb on me. He said he felt bad for the plight of his people, but soon it would all be over and things would be good again. I asked him what he meant by that. He replied "because in two years the Chinese will invade the U.S., take over the country, and free my people". HE WAS SERIOUS. Trying hard to maintain my composure, I asked him why the Chinese would come over here just to free his people. His reply? "We pray to the earth... and our prayers travel through the earth, and come out in China, where they can hear our cries". Yes, the man was using Looney Tunes logic, thinking that his prayers would pull a Bugs Bunny and dig their way to Hong Kong. I thought he was putting me on, but he vibed completely sincere. I have a talent for listening and making people think that I take them seriously (even when I don't), so we kept talking. He started talking about his many illegitimate children, boasting about his sexual prowess, expressed his opinion that asian pussy was the best pussy, and made himself out to be the ultimate lady's man (even though he was uggggggggggggggly as sin), and even claimed to have ties with Hollywood and said I had star potential. I kept nodding and smiling; at this point, most of my mind has been short-circuited, and I'm running on polite autopilot. He gets off the bus before me, leaving me to spend the last fifteen minutes of my bus ride perplexed, confounded, and more than a bit worried about why out of all the people on the bus, he singled me out to be his choir, his attentive Dr. Freud.
And that is why I miss Arizona buses, despite their constantly being late, breaking down, having non-existent A/C, and being piloted by the rudest motherfuckers in the state. In spite of all that, the crazy people made it allllllllllllllllllll worthwhile.
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Prolonged traveling on the bus convinced me that if I ever had the ability to time travel, I would turn it down. Why? Simple: if the present smells this fucking bad, I don't even want to know the kind of unsightly smells waiting for me in the past.
I noticed you have returned, just thought I'd drop by and say hi.