I am not going to take this time to complain about my bus showing up forty five minutes late. I will not harp on the fact that I am standing on a street corner with no shelter, beaming sunlight coming down in 80 degree rays and not a breeze for miles. It was almost like being at a beach, except... Instead of a breeze, there were exhaust fumes spurting up into the air. Hot ones. And instead of wearing a bathing suit, I was wearing an actual suit. The kind that doesn't breath. Sand is dirt. You get it...
By the time the bus showed up, I was thinking of different ways to remove my clothing without people noticing. They don't notice when I am crossing the street at a designated crosswalk, how are they going to see me peeling my socks off and watching the black material evaporate. And yes, I know it is only eighty degrees today. And that I have a whole summer ahead of me where I shall try to sit on my hands and not discuss how my body was not designed for heat and how the sun is purposefully out to get me and me alone. But almost an hour just standing there? Forty five minutes times wait time stress plus black suit times FORTY FIVE MINUTES equals something along the lines of one hundred and ninety seven degrees. And that's hot.
At last, this enormous metal vehicle starts making its way towards us lowly public transporters, and the doors open with air conditioning, lightly, coming out towards us. Air conditioning is like my own personal space ship beam calling me home. So I get to sit down and all is temporarily right with the world.
Then, the ringing begins. The guy behind me, let's call him 80's Dude From Hell, allows his phone to ring a number of times. Loudly. Like an old school house line ringing a few inches from my head. So I turn around to make eye contact with him, which is The International Bus Signal for, "I heard that!" It rang a few more times and I tried to up the volume on my huffs and puffs and sighs. And then the texting started. And with each blaringly loud noise alert, I tried to work up the courage to politely beg him to mute his phone. I was, of course, scared that we would have carying opinions on "polite" at that very moment. So instead, I allowed this blanket of anger to come over me. I imagined elbowing my way through the non-opening window next to me super hero style, grabbing his phone from his tiny hands and throwing it hard into the ground.
This last part is more for me than you, to remind me to trip this small man and hope his phone isn't around to pad his fall next time I see him. Height: 5'4''. Skin: Tan. Eyes: Stupid. Glasses: Lime green plastic rimmed. Which means he either works for a cheesy party events company, or he was rummaging through my trash in 1989 and I will press charges. Clothing: An ill-fitted very short and tight black pleather pseudo riding jacket. Maybe on your invisible motorcycle, you need your volume turned up to hear your text messages outdoors with 60 miles per out wind rushing into your ear drums. But on the bus? Vibrate is accepted.