Thursday, October 28, 2010

Riding the Dog

Boarding the Greyhound for the 2.5 hour ride to Atlantic City, I score a seat to myself. A minute later, a tall, athlete-sized man leaves the seat he'd chosen next to another man, and "excuses" the hand bag I'd plopped down next to me when I'd heard the bus door close. 

I am the smallest person left with a double seat. 

He sits on the corner of my jacket, then opens his newspaper. His elbow pokes my forearm as he turns the pages. 

Seven rows up, a tiny baby howls. Why the hell is a near-newborn on a casino bus? 

A phone ring--loudly--across the aisle, and a man answers it. 

"Hello? What? Stand still, I can't hear you. I can't hear you. What?"

We're in the Lincoln Tunnel. Not the wisest place for a phone call.

It occurs to me that I hate people sitting next to me. In fact, I hate the bus. I love trains, ships, my car. But I hate the fucking bus. This does not bode well for my future of travel. After all, I specialize in public transport. 

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