2002-11-12 - 12:47 p.m.
So, here it is. The much lauded and by now overhyped Drunk Tranny entry.
There are times I question my loyalty towards mass transit systems. Where I long for the comfort and perceived security of my European automobile and its insulated environs. Like this morning. It was very brisk and already I was questioning why I was taking the train instead of driving. People in other parts of the country are probably scoffing at my discomfort, but I could see my breath people. That makes it cold. There was frost on the grass. And thus winter strikes California. Fortunately the train arrived before I found it necessary to gut the rather large man next and crawl inside for warmth (the smell would have been off putting Iím sure) and so I boarded the train, grabbed the first available seat, and proceeded to tune out everything by reading. As the train stops and passengers shift, I like to glance at who is getting on the train, and also what seats are available. I have no problem allowing someone elderly or perhaps other-enabled (GD political correct bastards! Itís them Democrats) person to have my seat. And, of course, any particularly attractive women. A few stops down the line, an obviously homeless gentleman of ambiguous sexual persuasion (he was wearing traces of makeup and smelled like someone had drunk an entire bottle of Designer Imposter Chanel #5 and then vomited it back up all over him, along with some carrots, judging by the stains) boarded. I made eye contact, totally by accident. A little embarrassed, I turned back to my book At the next stop, I noticed that he was staring me. This would not be good. I could feel his stares, boring into me. Giving up the pretense of reading, I focused on the page, uncomfortable with his concentration towards me. He was mumbling things that I didnít catch, but by the time he ascended to full volume I knew that I was in trouble. There were some loud expletives hurled my way, along with comments about me, my race, gender, and general vicinity. I responded politely that I didnít know him, or anything about him and had certainly not made any judgment calls regarding his person. I kept the homeless and ambiguous sexuality to myself. I felt it was inappropriate. Thatís when the yelling started. It seemed that s/he/it had a posse, and that this posse would be round to kick my ass. At this point, the Hispanics in the car got up and, with dignity, walked to the back of the train like rats fleeing a sinking ship. I noticed this because I myself was glancing around for flight options. There were 6 rather uncomfortable people left, reading papers, cheap novels, or staring out the window with the same concentration I had used on my page. Thatís when I knew that there would be real trouble. At any time you see a group of janitors, fast food employees, and general laborers from south of our border fleeing an area, itís generally a very good idea to do the same. I considered getting off at the next stop, but would that work? Where were the Transit police when I needed them? Inwardly I was secretly amused by all the alliteration going on, The Transient Tranny on Transit. I may have smiled. Iím thinking I must have, because during my pondering of the T3 he had settled somewhat, making observations out loud, perhaps to an imaginary friend. Or his reflection in the window, like some foul parakeet. His renewed tirade, brought on by my inadvertent smile, now had him threatening to re-arrange my anatomy in intriguing ways. The conductor at this point made his presence known; by announcing to anyone that may have been listening, that should there be any problems, there were call buttons located in the cars to ask for help. This seemed to break through the inner monologue going on in T3ís head, and he quieted down some. As the train was braking towards the next stop, one of the regulars, a pasty fellow I see nearly every morning, got up to disembark the train. T3 followed him to the door well and stood there, still taunting me. As the doors opened, he blocked them, keeping them from closing, and effectively preventing the gentlemen from exiting. I was again admonished to watch out, that at some point a posse of street trash would accost me. I imagined a group of bums dressed in flea market purchased designer knockoffs and faux fur bearing down on me, enraged by my classic style and easy use of fabric and texture to hide my bodyís faults, the assured way I wield satchel and jacket to hide the accoutrements of modern technological society. Sometimes, I too am enraged by these things, catching site of myself in a window or reflecting pond. The look on Pasty Man, trying to exit the car, was priceless, and led to more smiling. Along with the doors dinging, due to the obstruction. The fear of this situation, poor Pasty Man. I imagine he still is unable to use the toilet. After what seemed ages, but in actuality couldnít have been more than a few moments, T3 exited, leaving Pasty with a difficult choice. Exit now, or have a ľ mile walk backtracking. He decided, no doubt due to the cold, to brave T3, who was at this point, ranting on the platform. The doors closed, and the train resumed its way, now peacefully. The Hispanics returned from the back of the car to reclaim their seats, like seagulls after a storm. I glanced around at the 5 people who had not moved. No one would look at me; no one commented. Where was the love? The solidarity of surviving such an experience should have bonded us. We had just survived a suburban white persons nightmare, trapped in a moving vehicle with an irate, possibly stoned black (fe)male. I wanted to laugh about, to relieve the tension. But there were no takers. Now Iím going to be constipated for the rest of the week. Iím still disappointed in my fellow passengers. Iím sure that they will now go out and vote for conservative candidates with tough views on the homeless, zero tolerance for substance abuse, and gated communities. I also imagine that there will be 6 more cars on the road tomorrow.
Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29
Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19
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Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20
Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18Guestbook Notes