Another One Rides The Bus
On the advice of both my mother and editor, the idea was that I’d dispense with the drinking and drug epics this week. Instead, I decided, I’d drive around Portland one evening picking up old people at bus stops and taking them where they needed to go.
Weird idea, I know, but it came to me while listening to Weird Al’s “Another One Rides the Bus” for about twelve consecutive hours on my iPod as I searched the Multnomah County Library for a dirty limerick I’d written in the margin of one of the books back in high school.
Don’t ask. Suffice it to say I don’t remember exactly what it said, but I do remember it was good. And very dirty. And there were drugs involved.
So anyway, I figured while I was out being a good Samaritan I’d employ the trusty little digital recorder I use for work to document the evening, send it to the typing service I also use for work, and in the end I’d have fodder for a nice column replete with warm tales of public transport and the colorful old folks who use it.
(In the media it’s what they call a “Puff Piece.”)
Long story short: That didn’t really work out. The first old guy I picked up was a medical marijuana user (read: total stoner) who smoked me out, then took me to a bar, and then to another, I lost my car, etcetera, etcetera.
Fact is, after the first bar, I don’t remember a fucking thing. Apparently, however, I was conscious enough to stick to the recording plan and actually capture random bits and pieces of conversation, altercations, etc.
Remarkably, I somehow managed to even download the files to the typing service’s server, so when I woke up, snug as a bug in my own bed (two days later), there was a transcription waiting for me in the mailbox.
Here, then, are some highlights. Make of them what you will.
All I can really say is that, so far as I can tell, I’m the “Male Voice” in all of these scenarios—though I guess that too could be debated, depending on my level of inebriation.
***
MALE VOICE: I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.
FEMALE VOICE: I swear to God.
MALE VOICE: A cabbit?
FEMALE VOICE: Yes.
MALE VOICE: That just doesn’t work. Cats and rabbits. They can’t…
FEMALE VOICE: You want to see it?
MALE VOICE: Fine.
***
FEMALE VOICE: Hey Baby.
MALE VOICE: Hey.
FEMALE VOICE: You looking for a date?
MALE VOICE: I’ll need a companion for the Oscars. How’s next February look for you?
FEMALE VOICE: Oscars?
MALE VOICE: Costume design. Seven nominations. No wins. This is the year, though. Fingers crossed. Your jumpsuit. The waist. I might take it in a little…
FEMALE VOICE: Don’t touch me, bitch.
MALE VOICE: No, no. It’s all right. I’m a professional.
FEMALE VOICE: So am I. You got to pay first…
MALE VOICE: Hey, if you want to look frumpy…Hey! (Unintelligible rustling.)
***
MALE VOICE: Another one rides the bus. Another one rides the bus. (Unintelligible singing.) You shut the fuck up. I’m trying to balance my checkbook.
***
MALE VOICE: I wasn’t looking at her.
MALE VOICE 2: Then what the fuck were you looking at?
FEMALE VOICE: You were staring at my tits.
MALE VOICE 2: You were staring at her tits.
MALE VOICE: Me?
MALE VOICE 2: Yes, you. Asshole. You got a staring problem?
MALE VOICE: I do, in fact. Mammarial Myopia. It’s rare. But devastating. I have a note from my doctor here somewhere.
FEMALE VOICE: Kick his ass, Mick!
MALE VOICE: Mick? (Laughing.)
MALE VOICE 2: What the fuck are you laughing at? Come here…
MALE VOICE: Whoa. Whoa. Easy. Nothing. I just thought of something funny. Unrelated.
MALE VOICE 2: Come here!
FEMALE VOICE: He’s behind the bar. Over there!
MALE VOICE (Distant shouting.): No, no. There’s a signed picture of Jan Michael Vincent behind your table. I was staring at him. He’s my favorite.
***
MALE VOICE: Do you know any Jacques Brel?
MALE VOICE 2: No.
MALE VOICE: Al Martino?
MALE VOICE 2: No.
MALE VOICE: Paolo Conti?
MALE VOICE 2: No.
MALE VOICE: Al Martino?
MALE VOICE 2: You already asked me that.
MALE VOICE: I most certainly did not.
MALE VOICE 2: You have ketchup on your pants.
***
MALE VOICE: Fucking pigs!
***
FEMALE VOICE: This isn’t you.
MALE VOICE: You asked if I had any ID.
FEMALE VOICE: Hey. I know this guy. Dr. Chang. He’s my dentist.
MALE VOICE: I don’t want to go in there anyway.
FEMALE VOICE: Hey!
***
FEMALE VOICE: Why are you crying?
MALE VOICE: It’s just so unnatural. It’s hopping.
FEMALE VOICE: You want to hold him?
MALE VOICE: I really need to start going to church again.
FEMALE VOICE: Did you just piss your pants?
***
MALE VOICE: Do you take American Express?
MALE VOICE 2: Absolutely Dr. Chang.
MALE VOICE: Fabulous. Go ahead and throw in another bottle of Old Spice, please. You never know.
MALE VOICE 2: Indeed.
***
FEMALE VOICE: Where do you live?
MALE VOICE: Ever see that movie “Memento?”
FEMALE VOICE: Yeah.
MALE VOICE: Based on my life.
FEMALE VOICE: Shut up.
MALE VOICE: Wait. Who the hell are you?
***
Incidentally, when I received the transcript from the typing service there was a note attached asking that I not seek their services again. They didn’t really give a reason, though they did say they were contacting the real Dr. Chang regarding his credit card.
“No good deed,” right?
renegade magazine | Bus | The Tired Man
Reminds me of the month I spent in Bakersfield one night… two $10 hookers and an 8 ball; ripped off a cab driver [the cab driver was Ali; every time he spoke his head shook like bobble head] Fuck him; he should be back in Islamabad working in a Starbucks instead of taking Leroy’s job; now Leroy has to work in the circus midget bull riding.