Sunday, November 13, 2011

Mr. Bud

As you all know, I take the bus.  It's good for exercising (walking to and from the bus stops), it's better for the environment (than taking my own car everywhere), and it's better for my anxiety levels/road rage.  It's also "better" for creepy story material.

I suppose you can guess that I was waiting for the 66.  I was.  I've had some creepy experiences on other bus lines, but those were before I started this blog.  Anyway, I got off the 140 (second creepiest line I've found so far) and went to wait at the stop for the 66.  There were two men on the blue, metal, covered bench, which is segmented into four equal ass-setting areas.  I wouldn't call them seats because they don't seem actually designed for sitting pleasure; they are purely utilitarian places to set your ass.

As men do, one was sitting on one end of the bench, the other at the other end, as far away from each other as possible.  This left me the decision about which ass area to take: the one next to the pudgy, simple-looking, baseball capped guy with the hangdog look; or the one next to the tall, lanky guy, drinking a bud ice and wearing clothing too big for him.  I looked once, then again, and made the quick decision that Hangdog felt less threatening.  He said "Hi" with an odd cadence that suggested mental simplicity, as I sat down.

Mr. Bud seemed to be trying to catch my eye.  I noticed this in my peripheral vision, but decided to keep looking straight ahead.  There's nothing that invites creepitude like acknowledging someone.  Hangdog decided to head for a different pasture soon thereafter, and I willed myself not to get up and move to that seat, further away from Mr. Bud.

A loud motorcycle zoomed past and Mr. Bud whooped into maniacal laughter that stopped as suddenly as it started, then sat, rocking back and forth muttering in such a way that I suspect he has some developmental disability or a brain injury.  I made out the words "want to tell you something" and the rest disappeared into murmurs.

He burst into the same, short lived maniacal laughter a few more times, then got up to toss his beer can in the garbage.  He made a show of stretching way up high to slam the can into the garbage but since there's a cover on these cans with a hole in them not much larger than the diameter of a beer can, it slammed into the lid and bounced onto the ground, jubilant with defiance.  Mr. Bud picked it up and slid it in this time.  I avoided commenting.

He came back around to his seat and stood in front of it, facing the bench and his strewn effects on the ground.  I chanced a glance in his direction and, with horror, found him fiddling with his belt buckle.  By fiddling I mean it looked a lot like he was trying to disengage its latching mechanism.

I had a choice here.  I could have said something quite pointed like "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!"  Admittedly, part of me was curious if he really meant to do what it looked like.  But I took the easy way out and swiftly removed myself from the vicinity.  I quickly assessed the wall behind the stop and leaned up on it next to a very secure looking guy.  Mr. Bud came around the stop less than a minute later, his pants on, and disappeared into Walgreen's parking lot.