A Veritable Eyesore

The Bus Ride pt.1

For several reasons, it would've been unthinkable to describe, in full, the story of my injury to that old geezer. Too many unsavory details, and even if I did, would he believe me? Then again, do I really believe, or even understand, what actually happened?

That night I was drunk. Very drunk. After months of relative isolation, I went to see some friends for a small gathering, which soon turned into a party

The guys that threw the party are bankers and consultants, and in addition to that, they're also old friends of mine. All smart guys, accomplished, hard working. Sometimes, when they begin discussing the stock market or trade policies with China, I wonder whether we've grown apart, but usually it only takes a beer or two to fix that feeling.

That's a little beside the point, though. The point is, I hadn't seen people in a long time, and I was excited. I talked all night, I listened eagerly: I was delighted to be in the company of others. What a feeling! I smoked cigarettes on the terrace with people I hadn't seen in ages. We laughed, hugged, shared stories. After all that isolation, we felt we deserved at least that.

There was only one moment, which was, if only for a moment, unpleasant. I was out on the terrace, in a jovial mood, when I decided to strike up a conversation with someone whom, at best, I'd call an acquaintance. For the sake of convenience, let's call him Sean. 

The only times I ever see Sean is at these parties. He's a coworker of one of the guys in the suite—Peter's perhaps, although I'm not sure. Anyway, he's not the type of person whose conversation I'd usually seek out. Don't get me wrong, there are no bad feelings between us, but, from the limited interactions we've had, I find his presence to be rather...off-putting. Something about the way he holds himself: the backhanded things he says, the bored expression of superiority that rests on his face, that smug smile and insolent gaze, always lazily assessing. This, I assume, is the look he gives to people who are of no use to him.

So, for whatever reason—perhaps because I hadn't been to a party in months—I slapped him on the back and asked how he was doing. He was confused because at first, he didn't recognize me. My friendliness had caught him off guard. But then his insolent gaze returned. We barely exchanged any words before he asked, 'What do you do, again?'

I fumbled for a response.

"Well, I was a waiter, but I'm also a musician...but I'm still waiting to see if I'll be called back to work. There's a limited staff right now—you know, without any indoor dining."

"Right," he replied, nodding. "So, you're unemployed?"

"Yeah," I said, straining to sound casual. I'm really not a violent person, but I had the strong desire to hit him in the face.

"You know," he said, very thoughtfully, "I bet you could make a few bucks playing in the park."

"That's a good idea. I'm going to grab a beer. Do you want one?"

I walked away before he replied. It wasn't worth getting upset about. I soon got over it, anyway.

By the end of the night, I was blind drunk. There were only a few people left at the party, most of whom had gone into a bedroom to do coke, so I decided to leave. My lumbering body only had so many more steps left in it before I passed out. Saying bye to whoever was around, I left, quickly descending all five flights of stairs.

Outside, the streets were quiet. Cabs passed by and faded in the distance. The bars on Second Avenue were all closed, their windows dark and shuttered. Stumbling along, I looked around only to find that the streets were empty. I was alone. This made me happy, in a childish sort of way. I could act as drunk or as stupid as I wanted without anybody there to judge me. And in this happy state of mind, I began to have a newfound appreciation for everything around me. Everything—from the trash piles, to the squeaking rats, to the high rises spotted with boxes of light—was strange and poetic. Sharp and blurry. The traffic lights, changing colors, spilled bright reds and greens onto the street. The crossing light flashed, beating like a heart. And yet, deprived of honking cars and busy pedestrians, they were comically inept, changing to no satisfaction. Only silence prevailed.

 Somehow, I had the feeling that I was in a movie, or rather, that these flashes of reality, which my eyes sparingly took in, were masterful shots in an avant-garde film.

At the 83rd street entrance to the Q, I stopped at the top of the escalator. The stairs stretched down to a dizzying depth, the foot of which seemed as remote as the bottom of a well. The descent must've been at least two, three hundred feet. One after another, stairs endlessly generated at my feet, parting like leaves floating downstream.

Hesitantly, I stepped on.

At the bottom of the escalator, the subway turnstiles were blocked off with an accordion gate. I stopped, but before I could make sense of it, a booming voice rang out: Yo! It startled me. I looked up. In the far corner of the station, standing upright with a broom and dustbin resting against his waist, there was a hefty black man in an orange vest, waving. He called out again, but I couldn't understand him. His voice echoed off the low ceilings, lagging behind his waving arms.

It wasn't until he repeated himself several times that I understood what he was saying: train's closed.

"Fuck," I muttered, letting out a sigh. 

I turned around and went back up the escalator. Descending in the opposite direction was a short, red-faced man with a goatee and an uncanny resemblance to a gopher. Chubby cheeks, buck-teeth. He was wearing a blue, MTA uniform. 

"It's closed," he said. "Don't you know? They're doing cleaning every night."

"Thanks," I said, realizing that, despite him looking like a gopher, I was the idiot in this situation

Out on the street, everything was plain and dull. The traffic lights had lost their enchanting appeal. 

How was I to get home? A cab? An Uber? Both too expensive. My only option was to go back to the party and crash there.

I was mulling this all over when a bus pulled up in front of me, screeching and hissing as it came to a halt. The doors opened. The engine idled like a resting beast. I glanced at the letter Q running across the electronic display and stepped inside. The doors closed behind me and we began to move. The driver waved me off as I tried to pay. 

"Thanks," I said. 

Oddly enough, the bus was almost entirely full. Walking down the isle, looking for a seat, I became flustered. For some reason, everybody was staring at me. They began pointing at their faces, at their masks in particular. I stared back at them, confused, and it took me a few seconds to realize I was the only one without a mask. Embarrassed, I put mine on and grabbed an overhead strap, staring off in a direction where nobody else was sitting. 

We drove for a while before the bus made another stop. A few people got off while an older, heavyset woman slowly stepped on. She dragged a small cart behind her. Finding a seat, she sat down, mumbling to herself while straining the pleats in her large skirt. Her ankles were swollen, riddled with varicose veins. A sour, rancid smell, like an old wet dog, spread throughout the bus.

A finger poked me in the back. I turned around and there was an old man, pointing at an open seat. I nodded in appreciation and sat down. He winked back at me. Resting my head against the window, I watched as the street lights passed by. 

Soon, my eyes became heavy.