Indeed, what do you call a female donkey? This question is vexing me 3:30 on a Monday morning. Outside the last of the New Jersey turnpike speeds by as the Peter Pan bus I'm in accelerates out of a tollbooth. One of the tiny TV screens -- ridiculously upholstered, along with the ceiling of this bus -- is playing some video of asinine trivia. The ass inquiry is it's first offering. I'm not nearly as annoyed as the man seated beside me.
"Fucking thing...turn the fucking thing off...fucking...fuck...turn fucking thing off!"
He spits the words out as they bubble up through garbles of phlegm.
"Fuck...fuck fuckfuckfuckfucking TURN IT OFF!!"
I'm staring off to the right; at nothing; away from him. Is it over?
He barely whispers, "...cunt."
What, I think, our driver is a man. This early in the morning and this far from home, nitpicking the ramblings of a roaming, raving lunatic seems to be a reasonable thing to do. Is he still upset about Bewitched?
The Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell vehicle was the in-trip movie, and my coarse companion did not hesitate to share his hatred of it with anyone in earshot. I preferred the more civil method of trying to drown the movie out with my iPod, but for some reason the driver had the movie's volume at an ungodly high level.
So I was forced to watch most of it. From what I gathered, Kidman falls for Ferrell and they end up together. I thought Kidman was playing the witch? Ferrel's character would have to be a warlock of considerable powers -- of the mountains into oceans variety -- to achieve such a feat. I thought I saw Michael Caine collecting a paycheck, but that could have been fatigue. Or denial; I still refuse to recognize Bob Hoskins' role in Maid In Manhattan, unless it's to point out when the acting begins and ends in the movie. Is he in the room? Yes? Then actual acting is occurring. No? Then enjoy the view(Jennifer Lopez provides a great view).
Anyway, Bewitched mercifully ended around three thirty in the morning, fooling me -- and my cursing seatmate -- into thinking we would be treated to the pleasantness of a dark, silent bus.
Then the TV asked as about the bitch donkey, before going on to test our knowledge of the Jackson 5 and Jim Palmer. Considering the cheesy new wave music, the video must have been produced sometime in the mid eighties. It went from question to question using screen wipes straight out of a high school audio/visual club production(the circle! the star! the turning page!).
Still, cunt?
Thankfully, the driver kills the video. The crazy bastard beside me is still muttering though. I can't be sure, but I think he might be half asleep. His rantings start out as whispers before riding a parabola up to screeches. Wiggling in my seat, leg sticking out into the aisle, I lay my head on half the head rest, trying to give him as much space possible while retaining some small measure of comfort.
I can't risk listening to my iPod; I might miss an audible clue of his inevitable attempt to slash my throat. That rules out sleep as well. Looking up at the ceiling -- why is it upholstered? -- I realize I have to be at work in six hours. I won't have time for any snoozing after my arrival, it will pretty much be a stop at my apartment and maybe the gym before going to work. That leaves the remaining, reaming bus ride of roughly two hours as my only opportunity to sleep.
It's so dark out. People snore, my companion occasionally calls some phantom a motherfucking bitch, but otherwise the bus is silent. A big, empty, rumbling, silent chamber. Daring me to close my eyes.
Fuck it, I think, if he kills me in my sleep, at least there will be plenty of witnesses. Straight to judge, jury, and executioner. I put some classical music on my iPod, recline the seat, and close my eyes.
I wake up minutes before our arrival in DC, unharmed, to the sound of my companion's whistle-high snoring. It's 4:30 in the morning. This is the life.
And I'm doing it all again this weekend(though hopefully not coming home as late).
Oh, and a female donkey is called a Jenny.
It's not always easy
4 years ago
