ADVENTURES IN PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION: Waiting for a Bus at the End of the World
– by Ken Bolding
Prologue: A significant number of people became convinced that the world would end on December 21, 2012.
Dec 18, 2012 1:45 AM
I got to Lake Ave Station just before midnight. Four minutes after the second to last bus went up the hill and a half hour before the last shuttle would arrive. A worried looking woman asked me if I knew when the bus was due. I told her, and then she asked if I knew any rich people? She explained that she had panhandled in Pasadena before and made a dollar or two, but sometimes rich people will give you a $20; so she wanted to know if I knew any. I told her I didn’t
A group of 4 or 5 drunk kids approach. They are scream-singing something at the tops of their lungs. As they get close I can tell what it is. The one that seems like the leader stops in front of me and scream-sings at me, “It’s the end of the world as we know it! It’s the end of the world as we know it! It’s the end of the world as we know it!”
I sing back, “And I feel fiiiiiiinnne!” Drunk-leader high-fives me and then hugs me before they move on.
“Drunk assholes” mutters Tall-Grumpy-Guy.
Worried-Panhandler looks at me astonished. “You’re fine that the world is ending?”
“That’s how the song goes,” I reply.
“Oh, it’s a song? But they say the world is going to end on the 21st. And you’re OK with that?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen on the 21st,” I say. And then spend the next several minutes talking to her about the Mayan calendar and reassuring her that the world will still exist after next week.
A perky looking woman who I had seen go up the hill a few minutes before, is walking back down the hill with a grocery bag. As she passes Tall-Grumpy-Guy, she asks “want some black beans?”
“What,” he spits out, annoyed.
She stops. “Would you like a can of black beans,” she asks again cheerily.
He pauses, locks eyes with her, and then enunciates clearly so there can be no misunderstanding, his words like icicles, “Canned food causes cancer!”
She shrugs and continues walking. A few minutes later, the drunk kids make their way back down the hill. One of them almost bumps Tall-Grumpy-Guy, and he shouts at them. They turn on him, two of them ready to throw punches. Two others subdue them. Their singing leader talks it out with Grumpy, smiles and apologizes for almost stepping on him. They continue on their merry drunk way.
“That’s the problem with being out here so late at night,” mutters Grumpy, “too many knuckle heads. I’m not trying to mess with nobody. I been to prison and it changed me. I’ve been a day trader for 5 years now. I can’t even day trade from prison. I know. I tried. I even get the paper a day late. It just doesn’t work.”
He tells me a little about prison life and how your homies don’t even stick by you. He says if there’s a fight and your homies jump in to help you, it will start a riot; so nobody does. “You’re on your own,” he says.
“Wow,” I reply.
We see the bus approaching and he gives Worried-Panhandler a dollar, and we all board the bus. Grumpy and Worried get out at the same stop. They both say goodnight and wish me well. I do the same.
Now all I can think is that if some cataclysm does befall the world in a few days, Worried will be both annoyed at me and a bit pleased that her concerns were justified. Grumpy, I’m sure, will just mutter, “fucking knuckle heads” as he makes one last trade before the lights go out for good.
