jasonenglish1.com

It’s been a while. The delay can be attributed to my video iPod, which has made commuting much more tolerable. And when I’m entertained, I’m not as cognizant of my surroundings. My absurdity radar, usually superlative, has been spotty at best.

But this week I vowed to focus. To examine. To find captivating material outside my 2.5 inch screen.

So here’s what happened: A man scoffed at me for reclining my seat. I scoffed back. That was that. People seemed to be observing the NO CELL PHONE policy. My seatmates generally kept to themselves.

We’re not exactly swimming in Lake Interesting here.

OK, this isn’t working. Let’s hop in the time machine. We’ll head back to the days before my iPod played moving pictures. Mid-December, 2005.Holiday Party season is brutal on the commuting class. Our office held ours at the Heartland Brewery in Times Square. Good times. When the clock struck 10, I stumbled over to Port Authority and hopped on my bus. The combination of cheap red wine and exhaust fumes knocked me right out. When I woke up, the scenery was unfamiliar. Equal parts panicked and confused, I rang the bell and hopped off. Equal parts drunk and careless, I failed to bring my cell phone.

My bearings eventually restored, I trekked the 1.7 miles home. Through the snow. No sidewalks. A Back-In-My-Day story to tell the kids. The passed-out-on-the-bus/lost-my-phone details will likely be phased out over time. And “Heartland Brewery” will be replaced by “soul-enriching charity work.”

[Originally posted February 2, 2006.]

Here’s a question for all my fellow public transportation users. Your answer provides a real window into your personality.

You have two choices:

1. You could accidentally pour a cup of hot coffee on the person seated beside you.

2. You could have that person accidentally pour coffee on you.

Before you answer, think through each option. Your clothes might get ruined. His/her clothes might get ruined. One of you could be seriously burned. Immediately after spilling, you could get punched in the neck.

There’s no right answer. Like the old “would you rather drown or burn to death?” conversation starter.

For my fare, I’d rather wear the coffee than spill it. Makes better fodder for a future episode of Commuting Suicide.

[Originally posted January 6, 2006.]

Under any circumstances, initiating a conversation on the bus is a terrible idea. Even if it starts strong and interesting, nobody can keep that up at 7:30am in commuter traffic. The conversation will turn stale and awkward, as will every future greeting with your new commuter friend. You might have to move.

Despite my strong views on the subject, I gaffed this morning. After taking my seat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dog biscuit. Odd. Had our roles been reversed, my biscuit-bringing seatmate would have surely been the subject of the next Commuting Suicide. On the off chance this fellow is also writing a semi-regular feature on his rush-hour adventures, I slipped into damage control.

Me: That’s weird. [Jokingly offering the treat to my fellow passenger] Snack?

Him: No.

Me: [Even if he doesn't write a semi-regular feature on his rush-hour adventures, I'm now sure he'll be starting one today.] Kidding, of course. We just got a dog.

Him: That’s nice. [Pauses, Googling 'dogs' in his head for a relevant conversational nugget.] I was just reading about people in this area getting dogs from Amish puppy mills in Pennsylvania.

Me: Huh. Well, don’t worry. She didn’t come from an Amish puppy mill. Hey, I wonder how the Amish puppy mill owners advertise.

Him: They’re all over the internet.

Me: Really? That’s strange. Amish people aren’t allowed to use the internet.

Him: They’re not allowed to over-breed dogs in harmful environments, either.

Me: Yeah, I guess if you’re going to break one rule, the cat’s out of the bag.

Him: I don’t follow.

[What did follow was 40 minutes of awkward silence. Can't wait for tomorrow!]

[Originally posted November 30, 2005.]

Today’s installment is actually a story I wrote a few months back, after a flight home from San Francisco. Since it’s been a slow and quiet week on the bus, I’ve decided it qualifies. Enjoy.

As we flew back from San Francisco, an elderly woman pointed her bony finger at me and asked, “Is that an iPod?”

“It sure is!” I exclaimed, eager to evangelize digital music to the senior set.

Immediately, I pictured her bragging to her fellow retirement home inmates: “He actually HAD an iPod! Yes, with him! Right next to me!” In her version of the story, I’d probably be a little older, without glasses. Taller, maybe.

From Nevada to Kansas to Missouri, I went on and on and on. Napster, LimeWire, iTunes. Explained the Playlist. Shined the backlight. Let her listen.

Halfway across the country, she couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, dear. I only asked because I’d never seen one so bulky. When did you get that? 2001?”

I thought she’d been mesmerized. Turns out, she was being polite.

What a burn.

Since I was too embarrassed to say anything beyond an uncomfortable mumble, she spoke at length about her iPod Mini. When she used the phrase “hacked the firmware,” I felt smaller than an iPod Shuffle. (By the way, I had to look that up when I got back. Here’s the scoop, in case you find yourself in a similar situation.)

What’s the point? Respect your elders. Or buy better gadgets.

[Originally posted November 8, 2005.]

I’ve been debating whether this was blog-worthy all morning. What the hell. Heard this exchange on the way in:

New Guy: “I just moved to town. You’ll think I’m crazy, but we bought the first house we looked at.”

Veteran: “That’s not crazy. I married my first girlfriend.”

New Guy: “Wow. And I take it that worked out?”

Veteran: “Kinda. I’ve been married twice since.”

New Guy: “Oh.”

[Originally posted October 24, 2005.]

This morning our bus had a minor but ear-piercing malfunction. The horn was stuck in the honk position. For twenty-five minutes.

“I don’t think he hears it,” a fellow passenger hypothesized approximately four minutes in. “Excuse me, sir. Is the horn stuck?”

“Of course it’s stuck,” he snapped, immediately assigning schmuck status. “Do you really think I’d lean on the horn?”

I really did think he would lean on the horn, and was entirely convinced until his sarcastic reply. I, too, felt like a schmuck.

Then I had a flashback to The Michael Richards Show, a terrible post-Seinfeld flop I’m sure I never watched. But the scene I remembered from the promos was Richards in a convertible, horn stuck, loudly singing Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “Taking Care of Business” to drown out the noise. It wasn’t funny then, and it surely wasn’t funny this morning.

Not much happened during the horn’s twenty-five minute anthem. The angry looks by approaching drivers got old. The mood on the bus went from puzzled to furious to defeated. It was like someone said, “What would make this worse?” then turned up the volume.

But, after we pulled over and the driver performed minor surgery, we had peace and quiet. Always an adventure

[Originally posted October 19, 2005.]

I was absolutely soaked on my seventeen-minute walk across town yesterday morning. My Totes umbrella was no match for the torrential rain and gale force* winds. On the elevator up, I could smell the pneumonia.

Miserable and whiny, I made two decisions. First, I couldn’t make it through the day in water-logged pants. Second, parading around in my boxer briefs wouldn’t suffice.

So, I hit up Modell’s and bought me a cozy pair of black sweatpants, some Air Jordan socks, and their second-least expensive t-shirt (a gray Yankees “Jeter #2″). The least expensive shirt would have dissolved off my back had any droplets of water later fallen from my hair.

The new outfit, sans shoes, completely changed the office experience. People were nicer to me — I was randomly given a new hat and two bottles of champagne. My whole area felt like a freshman dorm. People didn’t have to wonder, “Is this guy serious about his job?” It was entirely obvious. And, minus that pretense, you can have some pretty good conversation with unfamiliar co-workers.

To review: All you need to better tolerate your workplace? This, that and these.

*I have no idea what “gale force” is. But my pants hadn’t been this wet since I was weaned off diapers.

[Originally posted October 13, 2005.]

Not many of these commuting stories will involve the Port Authority bathroom, because the Port Authority bathroom is a place I avoid. But my other option was pretending I spilled 7-Up.

On the way in, a young guy sprinted past me and into the stall, ignoring the homeless man arranging his multiple bags of garbage beside it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled at the urinator but in my direction.

I looked down, then left. I could almost smell his eyes trained on me. “I’d never jump in front of you,” I offered, no way to ignore him.

“That’s right. Cause you’re cool. Nobody cuts me.” I’m not sure if this was advice, a threat, or some unwritten rule, unwritten only because the instructor was illiterate.

He stuck out a hand. A bonding ritual. This was a nightmare for anyone, but I get skeeved out sharing soda cans with my closest friends. No choice but to shake on it.

It was immediately proven a wise decision when he unexpectedly turned and spat on the stall-man’s back. A urinal opened and I moved quickly, then struggled to go left-handed.

“I’d better calm down,” he announced, “or they’ll take me away again. Ha ha ha.”

I finished up, nearly washed the skin off my hands, and fled the scene. Need to start carrying an empty 7-Up bottle around. A prop to better explain the pool of liquid in my lap. Beats homeless spit.

[Originally posted September 27, 2005.]

“Does anybody know what street we’re on?”

The bus driver, sounding defeated, had pulled off the road. I’m not sure how long she’d circled aimlessly before admitting she was lost. But her call for navigational assistance was the last thing I wanted to hear at 10:54 PM last night. If there were 40 passengers on the bus, 39 of us responded with exaggerated groans.

The one holdout was a Junior Magellan, far too white and preppy to know anything about the Newark streets on which we waited. “The moon is on the wrong side of the bus,” he explained, finger waving, arms flailing. 39 more groans.

Ten minutes later, we were back in the same spot where Magellan started calling the shots. He returned to his seat, mumbling. “It’s not my fault, it’s the moon.”

Somebody shoot me, I thought to myself. As I noticed the seedy characters outside the bus, I realized somebody might.

Amid the quiet chaos, the scolding words of an angry dispatcher seeped out the CB radio and echoed through the bus. He wanted to know how the hell she got lost. She wanted to know how the hell he found out.

“There are no cell phones allowed on this bus!” she screamed at us, clearly losing whatever grip she had on the situation. Apparently, one of the 39 angry commuters called the “How Am I Driving?” 800 number listed, coincidentally, right beside the “No Cell Phones” warning. I don’t know what our mole said, but I’m guessing the gist of it was “Not well.”

With instructions barked from the command center, we found a highway and headed towards home. I’m fairly certain a good number of stops were skipped. Not sure what happened to those folks. They may still be on the bus.

Finally, 67 minutes after leaving Port Authority — a trip that once only took 24 minutes — I requested my stop and wrapped up today’s commuting adventure. All in a ride home after a day’s work.

[Originally posted September 22, 2005.]