I try to participate in the public transportation experience in LA as often as I can; however, in nearly five years, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had the thrill of a bus or subway ride. It’s usually because my car is in the shop or I have jury duty.
If you admit to riding the bus in LA, you’ll usually hear the backwards scream followed by, “but why?” My first ride was on the Venice Boulevard line. I was a very white girl on a very brown bus. My Spanish is still limited to nachos, burrito, cervasa, mommasita bonita (which my college dishwashers told me described me), and whatever total Sesame Street recall I may still have. Wouldn’t you know, some guy on the bus called me a mommasita bonita probably figuring I didn’t know what it meant. I looked at him and said, “GrassEous.”
On Monday, I dropped the car off and rode home on the Santa Monica line with the trannie hookers, the “help”, and stoner musicians. At this point in LA public transportation experience, I can usually count on a verbal interruption, especially on St. Patrick’s day. This time it was, “hey red, nice hair and Chuck Taylor’s.” I smiled thankful it was something nice in English.
This morning I got on an empty bus. Just me and an older woman. I sat two rows behind her. Once the bus pulled out, she turned to me and said with a Russian accent, “Are you awake?”
“Barely. Do I look that bad?” I replied.
“No, no,” she said holding a pamphlet with an image of Jesus praying on the cover.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t do Jesus this early in the morning. Do you have any Red Bull?” I said, securing firm placement stoking the fires of hell.
When I got to the office, I asked a few coworkers if I looked like I needed to be saved. The consensus was I just need a haircut and I need to get laid.