"By any other name..."
Oct. 13th, 2010 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonAnd now a brief list of names I've been called, while riding on public transportation, during my years here in Terminus.
Bald Head: Twice. Once by a prostitute who was propositioning me while I waited for the bus on Ponce De Leon. The second time by a drunk old lady while riding on the #124 out of Doraville Station. The bus had hit its brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing ended up mashing into each other under the momentum wave. The lady, who reeked of cheap beer, staggered into me and I caught her at the last second while just barely maintaining my balance. "Don't be trying to feel me up, Bald Head", she slurred and that was that.
Brother.
Friend.
Asshole.
Chief.
Big Man: Usually by cats trying to sell me bootleg DVDs, bundles of incense, CDs, bottled water and once a puppy. This last offer was made at Little Five Points station on the East Bound platform. Late night and winter with the train running predictably behind. The only other person on the platform was this human landslide of a man bundled up in a puffy, silver jacket. He waddled up my way, pausing a very conspicious yard away, looked around to make sure we were alone and stage whispered -
"Hey, Big Man. Check it out."
I turned around and saw Avalanche Joe there unzip his jacket down some and instead of reaching for a gun like I half expected, the tiny brown head of this mutt of a pup pops out.
"Twenty-five dollars and he's yours."
The pup panted excitedly. Big eyes, small snout, floppy ears. Cute but...
"Ummm... no."
"Twenty."
"Not interested."
And Avalanche Joe simply nodded, zipped up the pup, turned around and waddled back on down the platform.
Bull.
Slim Shady.
Dude: Often delivered with a poor imitation of the stereotypical surfer's accent.
Cochise.
American History X Looking Mother-Fucker.
Po-Po.
5-0: My favorite was while riding the South bound two years ago to visit Vee before we lived together. The train was stalled, blacked out and rush hour packed. August or somewhere around there and the dearth of ventilation was starting to grind at the lungs. It had been some time since we stopped moving. The heat stuck to us like a rancid fart and the collective funk of a battalion of passengers had everyone muttering. At one point this poor woman had lost control of her two grade school aged boys who began shrieking and hollering. She tried hushing them but her efforts only seemed to fuel their cacophony. Then one of them slapped the other. The brother responded with a punch. Then their escalation went from tiff to Mike Tyson in the span of seconds.
Frustrated, and on the verge of delivering a smack down of her own to these 21st century Katzenjammer Kids, she instead bolts out of her chair and thrusts a pointed finger at me.
The two boys cease fire and turn as one in my direction... as is most of the cab by now, now that I think about it.
"Don't make me have to call 5-0 on you!" She snaps.
The boys break off from their match and scuttle back to the single seat they shared by their mother's side.
Mister.
Sir.
Officer.
Money.
Bat-Man: During my first month at the Cube Farm, I worked a two to eleven shift. Luckily I didn't live that far off from MARTA at the time, so I was able to make the commute after my shift. One night though my friend the promoter was opening a new fetish night down at this club in the heart of Fratville, Terminus. It was on a Thursday of all nights and I wasn't able to get a ride, except from his then girlfriend, the Princess, over at the Buckhead MARTA station. So not wanting to arrive in my dress code sanctioned khaki's and white button-up, I waited until everyone in the office left. Snuck down to the men's room and changed into a pair of black pleather pants with a shiny, vinyl black t-shirt I scored from Oni's fashion boutique and a pair of pole-climber boots that screamed 'butch' so loud you could hear it a mile away.
So I made my way out of the men's room on stealth mode, caught the elevator down with a visibly petrified cleaning lady, bolted out the lobby without earning so much as a glance from the security guard and then hiked through the wilds of office park country towards the Perimeter Station.
When I arrived the train I needed was just pulling in. Poured on the speed and bounded up the escalator taking the steps in two's and three's in a stride. The 'bing-bing' bell chimed and the doors began to swoosh closed before I slid through the snatch of their jaws.
Making for one very dramatic entrance as I literally skidded and stomped to a halt.
Then I noticed a group of teenagers huddled over towards the back. They looked me up and down with slack jaws and bewildered gazes. Finally one of them bellowed -
"Oh, Shit... we got Bat-Man, up on this bitch!"
Where the rest of this cat's crew burst into a riot of laughter.
"That's me", and I snapped them this quick salute off my temple before taking a seat and trying to focus past the undying laughter behind me.
Lex Luthor.
Buddha.
White Boy.
Man.
Bald Head: Twice. Once by a prostitute who was propositioning me while I waited for the bus on Ponce De Leon. The second time by a drunk old lady while riding on the #124 out of Doraville Station. The bus had hit its brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing ended up mashing into each other under the momentum wave. The lady, who reeked of cheap beer, staggered into me and I caught her at the last second while just barely maintaining my balance. "Don't be trying to feel me up, Bald Head", she slurred and that was that.
Brother.
Friend.
Asshole.
Chief.
Big Man: Usually by cats trying to sell me bootleg DVDs, bundles of incense, CDs, bottled water and once a puppy. This last offer was made at Little Five Points station on the East Bound platform. Late night and winter with the train running predictably behind. The only other person on the platform was this human landslide of a man bundled up in a puffy, silver jacket. He waddled up my way, pausing a very conspicious yard away, looked around to make sure we were alone and stage whispered -
"Hey, Big Man. Check it out."
I turned around and saw Avalanche Joe there unzip his jacket down some and instead of reaching for a gun like I half expected, the tiny brown head of this mutt of a pup pops out.
"Twenty-five dollars and he's yours."
The pup panted excitedly. Big eyes, small snout, floppy ears. Cute but...
"Ummm... no."
"Twenty."
"Not interested."
And Avalanche Joe simply nodded, zipped up the pup, turned around and waddled back on down the platform.
Bull.
Slim Shady.
Dude: Often delivered with a poor imitation of the stereotypical surfer's accent.
Cochise.
American History X Looking Mother-Fucker.
Po-Po.
5-0: My favorite was while riding the South bound two years ago to visit Vee before we lived together. The train was stalled, blacked out and rush hour packed. August or somewhere around there and the dearth of ventilation was starting to grind at the lungs. It had been some time since we stopped moving. The heat stuck to us like a rancid fart and the collective funk of a battalion of passengers had everyone muttering. At one point this poor woman had lost control of her two grade school aged boys who began shrieking and hollering. She tried hushing them but her efforts only seemed to fuel their cacophony. Then one of them slapped the other. The brother responded with a punch. Then their escalation went from tiff to Mike Tyson in the span of seconds.
Frustrated, and on the verge of delivering a smack down of her own to these 21st century Katzenjammer Kids, she instead bolts out of her chair and thrusts a pointed finger at me.
The two boys cease fire and turn as one in my direction... as is most of the cab by now, now that I think about it.
"Don't make me have to call 5-0 on you!" She snaps.
The boys break off from their match and scuttle back to the single seat they shared by their mother's side.
Mister.
Sir.
Officer.
Money.
Bat-Man: During my first month at the Cube Farm, I worked a two to eleven shift. Luckily I didn't live that far off from MARTA at the time, so I was able to make the commute after my shift. One night though my friend the promoter was opening a new fetish night down at this club in the heart of Fratville, Terminus. It was on a Thursday of all nights and I wasn't able to get a ride, except from his then girlfriend, the Princess, over at the Buckhead MARTA station. So not wanting to arrive in my dress code sanctioned khaki's and white button-up, I waited until everyone in the office left. Snuck down to the men's room and changed into a pair of black pleather pants with a shiny, vinyl black t-shirt I scored from Oni's fashion boutique and a pair of pole-climber boots that screamed 'butch' so loud you could hear it a mile away.
So I made my way out of the men's room on stealth mode, caught the elevator down with a visibly petrified cleaning lady, bolted out the lobby without earning so much as a glance from the security guard and then hiked through the wilds of office park country towards the Perimeter Station.
When I arrived the train I needed was just pulling in. Poured on the speed and bounded up the escalator taking the steps in two's and three's in a stride. The 'bing-bing' bell chimed and the doors began to swoosh closed before I slid through the snatch of their jaws.
Making for one very dramatic entrance as I literally skidded and stomped to a halt.
Then I noticed a group of teenagers huddled over towards the back. They looked me up and down with slack jaws and bewildered gazes. Finally one of them bellowed -
"Oh, Shit... we got Bat-Man, up on this bitch!"
Where the rest of this cat's crew burst into a riot of laughter.
"That's me", and I snapped them this quick salute off my temple before taking a seat and trying to focus past the undying laughter behind me.
Lex Luthor.
Buddha.
White Boy.
Man.