17 June 2008
The Man With The Pink Fanny Pack
My favourite bit of that commute was when he got off the fucking bus. Heh heh heh.
Every so often, I’ll make it out of the house in time to catch the bus that gets me to college on time. For a few minutes, I allow myself to sit back in my seat and revel in the feeling of being on time for a change. And then, always at the exact same moment, just as the bus rounds a particular corner: there he is, at the bus stop. A large, round man, always wearing the same clothes — crusty old sweatpants, a jumper that is not big enough to cover his huge belly, a baseball cap worn backwards, and a bright pink fanny pack containing his portable cassette player and wallet. Always the same “I haven’t washed for a few months, and I don’t plan on breaking that streak for a while” smell about him, and always the same incessant babbling directed at anyone that will pretend to listen.
Usually, when someone a little out of the ordinary gets on a bus — and it’s a fairly frequent event in Newbury — they’re pretty easy to ignore. They’ll sit down and talk to themselves for a few minutes, then get off at the little corner shop to buy some dog food for lunch, and they’re gone. But when this guy gets on your bus, you are well and truly fucked, and all of the regulars on this bus know it; there is a loud, collective sigh when the bus rounds that corner and his pot-belly and backwards baseball cap come into view.
It starts off kind of endearing: he’ll say hi to everyone he knows on the bus, maybe ask how you are if you’re unfortunate enough to respond with anything more than a barely perceptible nod, and then it will start. He’ll pick one unlucky person to focus all his attention on, and say, in this loud, gruff voice that sounds as though a frog has taken permanent residence in his throat:
“I watched Braveheart last night. My favourite bit of that film was when Mel Gibson cuts that man’s throat. Heh heh heh.”
He won’t even wait for a response before continuing:
“And then I watched The Green Mile last night. My favourite bit of that film was when he healed that guy. Heh heh heh.”
And on:
“And then I watched Magnolia last night. My favourite bit of that film was when it rained frogs. Heh heh heh.”
After hearing enough mini-reviews, it really starts to grate, and the headphones go back where they belong, and I go back to listening to whatever music makes me the least depressed first thing in the morning. Then, after a few songs I’ll realise: he’s still going on.
“And then I watched Shrek last night. My favourite bit of that film is when that ogre turns into a princess. Heh heh heh.”
I’ve been known to express a desire to kill people before, but it’s usually just my charming, cynical dislike of everyone that isn’t me; very rarely do I actually mean it. But after spending more than a few minutes on a bus with this man, all I can think of is the various ways I’d enjoy killing him. I would probably be more willing to tolerate him if I thought he was genuinely that naive and simple-minded, but I’m confident he knows exactly what he’s doing, and is taking extreme inward pleasure at the level of discomfort and torture he exacts on roughly 30 unfortunate commuters every morning.
The only reason I haven’t yet administered my sweet revenge on him is that my contempt is unmatched by the perverse joy I experience from observing how uncomfortable he makes everyone else on the bus. Nothing on that morning commute gives me more pleasure than looking around the bus, revelling in the tortured, exasperated faces of other passengers, and reassuring myself that I’m not just a cynical, short-tempered bastard.
Endnote: You can hear this entry read aloud on the Quirky Nomads podcast.