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Confessions of a Fuck Up Artist
May. 21st, 2014 01:52 amBad drama MARTA morning. Boarded a late westbound train to Five Point's Station and was greeted immediately with a face that registered a contemptuous disgust as I've only seen in lock-up or bootcamp before. Doing my best to ignore the hostile gaze that tracked my entrance, I took a seat and dug for my book through my backpack. An electronic chime, the doors swoosh closed and we lurched forward. The gaze lingered on me drilling into my peripheral vision and when I looked up to greet it a voice snarled - "The fuck you looking at?"
Without thinking I barked back - "I don't know. The fuck are you looking at?" - and immediately realized what I was looking at. A woman. About mom's age. Business casual. People Magazine tucked under the arm. High heels poking out of a book bag and puffy white sneakers over stockings. Bright orange hair like grandma's.It takes me a full minute to realize she's calling me everything but a child of god. She's calling me out, loud. Up and down the cab. Scalping wolf tickets with me realizing my wallet's empty.
Direct quotes from the scene (but possibly memory jumbled out of order): "Fuck you, mother fucker. Little girl. Punk ass bitch. You don't know who you're fucking with, mother fucker. I ain't the one."
"Ma'am, " I attempt to interject an apology, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize..."
And she shut me down with another stream of invectives resembling a sailor with Tourette's. As a finale she told me how she'd be riding the train all the way to Hamilton E Homes if I wanted to talk some more shit. Some random dude shouted a 'Testify'. She turned to random dude and told him she'd kick his ass too.
"I'll take you both on." She huffed and waved her People Magazine in the air like a club.
I kept my eyes steady ahead. Out the window as the train burst out of the tunnels. Rage slithered around the thoughts and the humiliation of snickering commuters scorched the pride. Who was I in their eyes?, I wondered. Something between a clown and a monster maybe. Or maybe I was just projecting my own damage on a random bump into a stranger's bad day.
An hour later, Doraville Station and the bus driver refuses to get the show rolling even though we're four minutes late. Seems there's a woman who had absolutely no idea why her MARTA card was only registering a credit of a buck and change. She's not some a bum or anything like that. She's got on a Waffle House uniform under a heavy jacket worn inexplicably against the day's mounting heat. She's patted herself down. She's rummaged through her purse. All that's left is us. The woman shouted down the corridor of anxious and sleep deprived commuters for exactly one dollar and thirty-eight cents. When no one answered she repeated her question. She had to get work. She had to catch this bus. She asked again even louder.
Meanwhile, the driver sat on the side of her seat, sunglasses donned, uniform cap tucked low and the collective stare of those of us who have paid that settled upon her were met with flippant indifference. Apparently we were not moving until this woman paid her fare.
This is bullshit, I tell myself rising out of my seat and walking forward as I count six quarters. See here's the thing. Even though I always load my card up at each station for a few trips, I always keep the exact fare on me just in case there's a problem with my card. A transfer that didn't read right. A broken machine. Some bit of arbitrary bad karma the universe is hitting me up for. Whatever. I hand the woman the change. She thanks me. She turns to the driver. She actually hands it to the driver who, I swear to Eris, counts it before handing it back to the woman and turns around. With a deliberateness befitting a Zen Tea Ceremony, she shuts the doors and fires up the engine.
The bus rumbled off long after the Ms. Dollar Thirty-Eight takes her seat. I make my way back to my own . Random folks down the corridor mouth their thanks, nod with approval and I even get a pat on the back from some kid blasting beats out of his earphones.
Who am I now?, I wondered as the bus proceeded with great skill at arriving at every available red light between the station and my stop. Was I a nice guy willing to help out the cause when the clock was ticking or just a man willing to do whatever it took to get to where he needed to go. Or maybe I was just reacting to another stranger. A different woman. Maybe I was just reacting to the person I thought they thought I was.
But the day those events heralded is now at its conclusion and all I know is this. I'm a little wiser for the experience, a little more patient and little more ready for another morning like today's should it be there waiting again tomorrow.
Without thinking I barked back - "I don't know. The fuck are you looking at?" - and immediately realized what I was looking at. A woman. About mom's age. Business casual. People Magazine tucked under the arm. High heels poking out of a book bag and puffy white sneakers over stockings. Bright orange hair like grandma's.It takes me a full minute to realize she's calling me everything but a child of god. She's calling me out, loud. Up and down the cab. Scalping wolf tickets with me realizing my wallet's empty.
Direct quotes from the scene (but possibly memory jumbled out of order): "Fuck you, mother fucker. Little girl. Punk ass bitch. You don't know who you're fucking with, mother fucker. I ain't the one."
"Ma'am, " I attempt to interject an apology, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize..."
And she shut me down with another stream of invectives resembling a sailor with Tourette's. As a finale she told me how she'd be riding the train all the way to Hamilton E Homes if I wanted to talk some more shit. Some random dude shouted a 'Testify'. She turned to random dude and told him she'd kick his ass too.
"I'll take you both on." She huffed and waved her People Magazine in the air like a club.
I kept my eyes steady ahead. Out the window as the train burst out of the tunnels. Rage slithered around the thoughts and the humiliation of snickering commuters scorched the pride. Who was I in their eyes?, I wondered. Something between a clown and a monster maybe. Or maybe I was just projecting my own damage on a random bump into a stranger's bad day.
An hour later, Doraville Station and the bus driver refuses to get the show rolling even though we're four minutes late. Seems there's a woman who had absolutely no idea why her MARTA card was only registering a credit of a buck and change. She's not some a bum or anything like that. She's got on a Waffle House uniform under a heavy jacket worn inexplicably against the day's mounting heat. She's patted herself down. She's rummaged through her purse. All that's left is us. The woman shouted down the corridor of anxious and sleep deprived commuters for exactly one dollar and thirty-eight cents. When no one answered she repeated her question. She had to get work. She had to catch this bus. She asked again even louder.
Meanwhile, the driver sat on the side of her seat, sunglasses donned, uniform cap tucked low and the collective stare of those of us who have paid that settled upon her were met with flippant indifference. Apparently we were not moving until this woman paid her fare.
This is bullshit, I tell myself rising out of my seat and walking forward as I count six quarters. See here's the thing. Even though I always load my card up at each station for a few trips, I always keep the exact fare on me just in case there's a problem with my card. A transfer that didn't read right. A broken machine. Some bit of arbitrary bad karma the universe is hitting me up for. Whatever. I hand the woman the change. She thanks me. She turns to the driver. She actually hands it to the driver who, I swear to Eris, counts it before handing it back to the woman and turns around. With a deliberateness befitting a Zen Tea Ceremony, she shuts the doors and fires up the engine.
The bus rumbled off long after the Ms. Dollar Thirty-Eight takes her seat. I make my way back to my own . Random folks down the corridor mouth their thanks, nod with approval and I even get a pat on the back from some kid blasting beats out of his earphones.
Who am I now?, I wondered as the bus proceeded with great skill at arriving at every available red light between the station and my stop. Was I a nice guy willing to help out the cause when the clock was ticking or just a man willing to do whatever it took to get to where he needed to go. Or maybe I was just reacting to another stranger. A different woman. Maybe I was just reacting to the person I thought they thought I was.
But the day those events heralded is now at its conclusion and all I know is this. I'm a little wiser for the experience, a little more patient and little more ready for another morning like today's should it be there waiting again tomorrow.
