I took a Greyhound bus ride from NYC to Worcester last week. While I waited in line to board the bus a long metal pole fell through a hole in the ceiling and landed about 8 feet in front of me. I later learned this pole was called a “strut”. The crash, which nearly killed about ten people, rattled the crazies in the line to the bus to Worcester out of their peaceful mumbling to their shoes. Crazy people love action like this, and they started buzzing around recounting the incident, each time placing themselves closer to falling strut. I began imagining things that could fall from the ceiling and takeout an organ or limb of high enough importance for a healthy cash payout, but low enough to not hinder sexual prowess or cause loss of life. (Note to self: make list of such organs for another blog. Preliminary list: appendix, left little finger, brain.)
The bus to Hartford was uneventful with the usual Greyhound stock characters including: college student male, college student female, maternally built Latina on cell phone for 3 hours, Asian senior citizen female able to sleep for the entire ride despite Latina on phone, obese Americans (many and of any/unknown gender).
Things naturally got worse as we got on the bus from Hartford to Worcester declining steadily as Worcester neared. A self-described Old Hippie guy in full rubber raingear sat next to a young African American man. At first glance it seemed they may have little in common, but they proved false another stereotype as they were united in the common bond of being fall down drunk at noon. Two overlapping monologues in ensued. Old Hippie eventually out talked young African American waxing at great length about how Old Hippie shut down Seabrook nuclear power plant and how his mother’s boyfriend was trying to kill him. It wasn’t annoying as much as it was powerfully depressing. I’ll leave you on that note.
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