I'm sitting in the middle seat of the back row of the #66 bus, clutching grocery bags and looking forward to unwinding at home. There's a rotund 12-year-old seated at my two o'clock, a gum-chomping teenager to my right, and a middle-aged man with thinning hair who's sitting across from the kid. The kid shifts in his seat, and a transit card falls to the floor.
"Excuse me," I say. "I think you dropped your bus card."
"No I didn't," the boy says.
"No, it's right there," I say, pointing at the card that's just fallen from his lap. "By your foot."
"I don't need it," he says. "Don't got any money on it no more."
"And you're not going to pick it up?" I ask, leading him on the way you lead on a grouchy toddler.
"Nope," he says. Then he pulls a McDonald's cookie from his coat.
"So you're just going to litter, then," I say, giving him a disapproving look. "That's a shame."
"Shut up," the kid snarls, stuffing cookie into his mouth. I give up and mentally run through the Problems With Kids Today. I also mentally grant the child a name, Jerky Fatso. Jerky Fatso starts tossing cookie pieces onto the floor.
"Hey," says Thinning-Hair, putting his book down for a moment. "Why are you doing that? Why are you making a mess of the bus?"
"Shut up," a sullen Jerky Fatso replies, throwing cookie bits down with more force.
"That's someone's job, you know, cleaning up after you," continues Thinning-Hair.
"Shut up, that they job," says Jerky Fatso, tossing the McDonald's bag down with gusto.
Suddenly, the gum-chomping teenager explodes. "What is the problem with you people? Why you gotta yell at him? He ain't doing nothing wrong!"
Well, actually, littering is not so nice, but instead of pointing that out I say, "I'm not yelling at him. But it's rude to litter. And besides, I started out trying to help him with his fallen bus pass. I wasn't trying to start anything."
"This world ain't perfect, you know," she says.
"Right, but we can change it," says Thinning-Hair as Jerky Fatso sprinkles his crushed cookie on the floor. "Shut up," he says. And that's when all hell breaks loose. The teenager starts talking about how Jerky Fatso isn't doing anything wrong at all, and she bets we've made lots of mistakes in our lives, and why don't we all just go to hell anyway? This bothers Thinning-Hair, who tries to take the high road for about five seconds before telling the chubby-cheeked brat about how he'll be lucky to get a job someday cleaning this bus, that is if he ever gets out of juvi, where he's going to be by the time he's 16. Thinning-Hair continues on for a few moments, Jerky Fatso keeps shut-upping, and the teenage girl opens her copy of Medical Assistant Training. I move to the front of the bus and talk with Polish Chris, who happens to be on the bus two days after I met him.
"Excuse me," I say. "I think you dropped your bus card."
"No I didn't," the boy says.
"No, it's right there," I say, pointing at the card that's just fallen from his lap. "By your foot."
"I don't need it," he says. "Don't got any money on it no more."
"And you're not going to pick it up?" I ask, leading him on the way you lead on a grouchy toddler.
"Nope," he says. Then he pulls a McDonald's cookie from his coat.
"So you're just going to litter, then," I say, giving him a disapproving look. "That's a shame."
"Shut up," the kid snarls, stuffing cookie into his mouth. I give up and mentally run through the Problems With Kids Today. I also mentally grant the child a name, Jerky Fatso. Jerky Fatso starts tossing cookie pieces onto the floor.
"Hey," says Thinning-Hair, putting his book down for a moment. "Why are you doing that? Why are you making a mess of the bus?"
"Shut up," a sullen Jerky Fatso replies, throwing cookie bits down with more force.
"That's someone's job, you know, cleaning up after you," continues Thinning-Hair.
"Shut up, that they job," says Jerky Fatso, tossing the McDonald's bag down with gusto.
Suddenly, the gum-chomping teenager explodes. "What is the problem with you people? Why you gotta yell at him? He ain't doing nothing wrong!"
Well, actually, littering is not so nice, but instead of pointing that out I say, "I'm not yelling at him. But it's rude to litter. And besides, I started out trying to help him with his fallen bus pass. I wasn't trying to start anything."
"This world ain't perfect, you know," she says.
"Right, but we can change it," says Thinning-Hair as Jerky Fatso sprinkles his crushed cookie on the floor. "Shut up," he says. And that's when all hell breaks loose. The teenager starts talking about how Jerky Fatso isn't doing anything wrong at all, and she bets we've made lots of mistakes in our lives, and why don't we all just go to hell anyway? This bothers Thinning-Hair, who tries to take the high road for about five seconds before telling the chubby-cheeked brat about how he'll be lucky to get a job someday cleaning this bus, that is if he ever gets out of juvi, where he's going to be by the time he's 16. Thinning-Hair continues on for a few moments, Jerky Fatso keeps shut-upping, and the teenage girl opens her copy of Medical Assistant Training. I move to the front of the bus and talk with Polish Chris, who happens to be on the bus two days after I met him.
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