As I headed to work around 6:30 last night, walking up Whitehaven Parkway NW, crossing over 35th Street NW, I saw my beloved Circulator. When given the chance to circulate or WMATAit, I prefer to circulate. The one-way $1 fare beats $1.35 any day and gives me an extra $.70 a day to buy a Diet Coke or granola bar from the vending machine at work, while staying within my frugal budget. Plus I enjoy the 1/2 mile walk from the bus stop to my front door.
As the Circulator waited patiently to turn onto Wisconsin Ave. I was faced with the choice to run or not to run to beat it to the closest stop. I wasn’t sure how long the light had been red and if it would catch the other red light separating it from the bus stop. I also wasn’t sure if I wanted to run, umbrella in hand, to the bus stop and make a fool of myself along the way. I asked my confidant, EA, via BlackBerry but she couldn’t decide quickly enough either.
I decided to run. I thought that by the time the bus made it to the stop, let the three cold and wet passengers on, I’d be at the stop and could board. I got there just as the driver pulled away, running the red light a mere 20 feet beyond the bus stop.
Lucky for me, and you, a nice black woman with multiple bags in tow, sporting a beaded hat and multiple coats arrived just as the bus pulled away. (It was maybe 60 degrees last night so I figured she might be homeless or something) Circulators run every 10 minutes, but if you’re lucky they come sooner. Sometimes 3 in a row. Before I could think of something to entertain myself to help pass the time, she, like all transit lovers tend to do, struck up a conversation with me.
She was an angry woman. She despised the ad on the bus stop. I never really analyzed the ad, but have looked at it before because a hoodlum drew a handlebar mustache on her face and put Dracula stickers over her eyes.
Crazy Woman: “Why she standin’ in front of them tires? Who wants that look? I ain’t like tires?”
Me: ”I’m not really sure. I’ve never thought about it.”
CW: “Why they think tires looks good? I ain’t want no look that goes with tires.”
Me: “Yeah, me neither.”
As I thought about her broken English comments I began to wonder what kind of people go into advertising. Clearly people who don’t think like her, or really me for that matter. Maybe they’re more abstract thinkers. And when did tires become the perfect backdrop for a flashy dress and jewelry? Did I not get this month’s Vogue? Oh right, I can’t afford it, so no. If only Newsweek had a fashion columnist. Or maybe my favorite, newly hired, not yet big-time DC Examiner blogger could blog about the skinny in “it” fashion.
After a couple seconds of awkward silence and me pretending to analyze the ad, she decided she had more to tell me.
CW: “It sure is sad Jennifer Hudson’s family got knocked off.”
Me: “Yes, that is very sad.”
CW: “Sad, sad.”
I’m not quite sure “knocked off” is the politically correct terminology for JH’s sitch or what ”knocked off” really means. Sadly, when I hear those words, I think of BCS rankings and how UT got knocked off its #1 post– a subject matter I’m still not ready to talk about unless you have scenarios of how UT gets back in the National Championship run. Or, I think about American Gladiators and the joust on top of the platforms and how the goal is to knock your opponent off. Nonetheless, “knocked off” doesn’t bring to mind a triple murder.
When the bus finally came I boarded and walked all the way to the back. I didn’t want to be stuck next to her and engage in any more conversations. She was entertaining for a while, but I’d had enough. Plus I just got an e-mail on my BlackBerry and wanted to read it in peace. However, her piercing voice and incessant screams at the bus driver drew everyone’s attention.
CW: “Bus Driver did you vote today? You know every vote counts. Bus Driver I’m talking to you!”
For the record, “Bus Drivers” have actual names. I don’t think they wear name tags or anything, but generally its not appropriate to call people by their profession. However, bus drivers are on my personal list of “when job titles become your name.” The list consists of, but is not limited to: cab driver, mail man, garbage man, chef, police man, firefighter and doctor (“doc”). I don’t call these people by their professions, I prefer to learn their names.
All in all, I’m glad I chose to run to the bus stop, but even more glad the bus left me.
