The Hold Up

I
Can this guy follow me around my whole life? I wish he could, voicing my little displeasures whenever it's not appropriate for me to.

As I got on the bus, I knew I'd be late for work. It was already 11:30 and I needed to be there by noon. As usual, I began to curse every rider who took longer than I deemed necessary. People in wheelchairs were too slow, people with families of more than two took up too much space. No one was spared my wrath.

Of course, nothing was said out loud. I chose, instead, to swear under my breath and roll my eyes. So when the man in the back spoke up, I smiled a little.

"What's the fuckin' hold up," he asked. "Let's get fuckin' going."

Yeah, I thought. What is the fucking hold up?

This, all while the bus knelt to accept a woman I placed in her mid to late eighties.

Maybe I'm callous, blaming this woman for her brittle bones and arthritic joints. I wouldn't argue with that.

Picture a man, feathery, gray hair crowning his head. His build is slight, his body constantly shrouded by a neon blue and green parka, hands always carrying suitcases and plastic bags. He looks around, a broad grin plastered on his face. I look into his bright, cheery eyes, my own burning with rage.

"Please don't die," I think. "And don't take this the wrong way. But I hate you."

Unaware of my internal monologue, he opens a can of tomato juice and sips delicately from it.

"Spill it," I think. "Drop it on yourself. Stop being happy."

To my disappointment, the pleasant old man finishes his drink with nary an incident and gets off the bus, unknowingly causing me more distress.

What could he possibly have in those bags? Why does he lug them wherever he goes every morning?

II

There's another man I see on the bus often coming home from work. He's unassuming looking, always wearing a white, short-sleeved button-up shirt, rep stripe tie and black slacks. You see him more than once and realize that's all he ever wears, no variation. Not like he's got a bunch of different colored ties or slacks with pleats and without. Like those are the only clothes he has, the ones on his back, the sweat staining parts of the shirt like you wouldn't believe.

He opens his mouth and yells something at the bus driver.

"Go for the green," he yells, urging the bus driver to make it through the green traffic light. "Come on, man, go for the green!


This isn't the first time he's spoken up that I've seen. Not even the first time since I got up this morning. The driver gets angry.

"Sit down, sir," he says. Repeats it. "You have to sit down."

"Go for the green!" The man stands in the aisle now, waving his arm over his head like a lasso.

The bus stops and a police car slows behind us. Pulls up to the driver's window. Gets out to come aboard the bus.

The man, meanwhile has moved up the aisle and is standing next to the driver, pleading his case, explaining that he was just being friendly and what's the guy's problem anyway?

"What's wrong, buddy," he asks. "Why're you being so hard on me?"

A police officer approaches the bus and the man steps off, looking nervously over his shoulder. He runs down an alley behind a pet store. He'll be back, I'm sure, ranting and raving the entire time. I like to think of him as some manifestation of my inner anxiousness, urging the driver to go faster. Asking why the driver has a personal vendetta against him. Both things I do in my head.

I hope I don't go bald too.