The other day on the bus I had not one, not two, but three crazy old dudes. Not to be confused with smelly old dudes, who also occasionally appear. Maybe not so much crazy as… edge-of-society old dudes.
The first was at the stop where I got on, telling someone how a particular shelter was like working a fourteen hour shift — they kick you out at seven in the morning and you can’t come back until nine in the evening. To fill up the hours in between, he’d starting going to the YMCA, for lifting iron, swimming, and sitting in the jacuzzi. And because he was spending all his time at the YMCA, he quit drinking.
After a ways on the bus, passing through the University District, a fellow got on and sat in the seat in front of me. He was mumbling a blue streak about the inconvenience caused by all the goddamn students.
“They got 150 million for a stadium, but they can’t buy a coupla school buses. Got these damn college kids all over. Can’t get a seat in the Starbucks ’cause they’re all in there. Doing their homework. Huh! All got their backpacks, pokin ya in the face.”
At the front of the bus, some young innocent inquired of the bus driver where the bus was headed.
“Iss going to HELL. This bus goes to fucking Hades. It’s going to hell, with all the freshman.”
Then he sang scraps of a few Beatles songs, improvising about freshmen and their pimples. After a bit of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamons”, he burst out, “I could really use some acid!”
Old Guy #1, several rows up, entered into conversation with him. “Man, that’s what I was thinking! Lucy in the sky! Like Woodstock!”
Old Guy #2 revealed to the bus at large that he had been at Woodstock, and seen Jimi Hendrix, which revelation was followed by a ragged rendition of Purple Haze.
#1 was laughing empathetically and talking about “criss-cross pills.” A nickel-bag could keep you high for twelve hours.
#2 said, “Man, you got ripped off.”
Enter Old Guy #3, a scrawny fellow with a long, scraggly white beard. He recognized #2, and sat down next to him. #2 explained to him about the inconvenience of the goddamn college kids. #3 was the genial type, and cackled a bit while grasping the shoulder of the strapping young college boy across the aisle.
“He’s such a character! But you got to admit, the backpacks, you gotta watch ’em, you can poke somebody in the eye real easy, and not even know it.” #2 and #3 discussed the merits of aging, and how you’re a senior after sixty. #2 was still on the Beatles, and said something about four extra years — “When I’m 64.” Then he got off the bus. #3 cackled and waved, and thumped on the window when the bus pulled past #2. “Such a character!”
#3 got off at the next stop, and #1 fell silent, without anyone else particularly willing to commune with him. There was a woman in her early fifties sitting across from me, who leaned forward and had a conversation with the college boy who was addressed by #3, I presume discussing the preceding events, however they were not so loud as the old fellows, so I didn’t catch any, though I was exceedingly curious what they thought.
