Riding The Bus

You meet some interesting folk on the bus, and that’s why I think more people should use public transit. See, you may do your commute by driving, and that’s fair enough—but all you’re doing is sitting and taking in information that’s been pre-processed by writers, producers, DJs, music producers, or whatever other hoops something has to go through in order to get on the air. You’re not experiencing all of the glorious, insane aspects that makes up humanity.

Take, for example, the time I was on a bus going from downtown Nashville to my home. I was sitting, reading A Dance With Dragons when a man stops in the aisle next to me. He was about 5’6”, wore what looked like a safari outfit minus the hat, and had what can only be described as a twitchy face. “Excuse me,” he said, “are you Jewish?”

Now, I’ve been living in The South long enough to know that most people who ask this don’t want to engage you in a debate about Rashi’s commentary. More often, they want to share the hilarious joke they heard on Family Guy, thinking that because it’s about Jews, you’ll find it hilarious. So, instead of saying a hearty shalom aleichem, I said, “Why?”

“Well, you look Jewish,” he said.

“Why?”

“Oh. I think it’s your glasses.”

I nodded. “Huh,” I said. “Okay then.” I went back to reading.

Or, take what happened to me this morning.

I was drained, right? Game 6 of the Series was a rollercoaster, and I really needed some sleepy time on the bus—alas, I did not get the sleepy time. For when the bus turned into the Park & Ride center, a woman and her three year-old son got on. Mind you, this was at about eight in the morning. For whatever reason, both of them were screaming their lungs out.

The woman was screaming because she seemed to be one of those people, I believe, who are incapable of not speaking in an inside voice. Perhaps she grew up in a large household, where the only way to get attention from parents was to shout. Or maybe she was just crazy. Or had a power breakfast, if you get what I’m saying.

Anyway, the kid was screaming because that’s what children do. It is a well-known fact that children are born screaming and, until they are fifteen, they do not stop screaming. Some cities, I’ve heard, have noise ordinances that bar children from being in public during daylight hours because Jesus Christ, some people have shit to do during the day, and they don’t want to have to hear the shrill calls of children.

I kept my head down and the Shostakovich up. I was certain that if I concentrated on the symphony, I would be able to block out the noise. Nope. That was incorrect. The woman sat down in a seat behind and to my left and immediately started screaming at the child. “I swear to Jesus, boy, you need to be quiet. There are people on this bus who probably don’t have babies and they do not want to hear you screaming no you can’t have a drink because you’re screaming you need to BE. QUIET.” The kid, of course, did not stop screaming. “I swear, boy you almost make me regret having kids, but I don’t.”

That’s when I gave a deep, rattling sigh and turned up my Metallica.

She continued addressing… I don’t know. The air, maybe. Maybe she was talking to someone, but if so, I couldn’t hear their response over my music—which was playing at full blast. I could still hear the woman, though, and this is what she said.

“I don’t know why people don’t want to have kids I looooove having kids. Think I’m gonna have a couple more when he gets too old. Just keep poppin em out. You know I look at people what make twenty million dollars a year and ain’t got but one or two kids and I say, ‘Shit, I’m gonna have more kids for you,’” she burst into laughter. “You can’t never have too many kids and you know it.”

Her child then began screaming again.

“Shut up you can’t have a drink you been drinkin too much this morning anyway. You gonna piss yourself and, what, you think I ain’t noticing that you got your pants all down your ankles. Pull them back up cause these folks don’t wanna see your butt.”

I desperately wished that my iPod could go to 110% volume, just to see if that was enough.

We were on the Interstate at this point, and she kept scream-talking to her child. I managed to zone out just a little bit until we hit the Church St. exit, where my iPod’s battery ran out of charge and I was privy to her conversation with the woman seated directly behind me:

“You a single mom?” The crazy lady asked.

“No, I don’t have children.”

“That may be good, but it’s unnatural. It’s not in God’s plan. Girl you gotta find yourself a man, cause that’s the way God wants it to be it’s only natural. Tell you what else ain’t natural: People walkin around being single all the time. You ain’t making nothing better for yourself or others when you doing that. You gotta go with God and find yourself a husband or wife and get kids.

“It’s like I know how you don’t wanna work, but you do because you ain’t got a man. Just like a man don’t wanna do dishes, you know? Girl, that’s the way it is supposed to be.” She turned her attention back to her child. “Will you shut up no one wants to hear you scream? Shit.”

Now, I told you all of that to prepare you for this:

Chiggers Are Assholes

Pictured: Asshole.

So I did something this past weekend that I normally don’t do: I went on a nature walk.

I normally don’t do that sort of thing because I–like every member of my generation–am addicted to the Internet, and while I can access it on my smartphone, it’s pretty difficult to open fifteen different tabs on the Android browser.

There’s also the horrible Tennessee summertime heat and humidity that make going down the street for a tea a trial. Seriously, it’s close to Houston in terms of ungodliness. The heat index yesterday, for example, was 115 in Houston. It was 105 in Nashville. That’s insane. That’s actually–and I’m serious–enough heat and humidity for a person to boil an egg on the street and sweat enough to not have to go to a sauna. Ever. You will never have to go to a sauna because all of the sweat you will ever have in your life will drip out of you in the short time you’re outside.

And then there are the bugs.

I’ve heard that deeper in the South, the bugs are worse, but considering the size and amount of bugs in Tennessee, I have no desire to go south of Nashville. I’ve seen mosquitoes so big you’ll think you’re stuck in the Jurassic period. I’ve seen mosquito hawks–you know, those big fuckers that get stuck in your house and keep bumping into the ceiling because they can’t do anything else–the size of helicopters.

But those aren’t the bugs I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the supreme assholes in the insect kingdom (family?): Chiggers.

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Please, Send Me Hate Mail

Welp, I’ve been feeling disheartened lately. Kind of an ennui brought about by yet more rejections and some legit thought about this whole teaching abroad thing. (Which is completely different from how I decided to earn my M.A., which was more along the lines of “Hey, that’d be cool, I’ll go… there!”)

But anyway, this isn’t about my feelings, because feelings are scary and terrifying and require one to look seriously at one’s self in order to determine something, anything about one’s self. And I don’t like doing that, because that’s how literary stories are born, and I find those to be detestable and boring by virtue of their navel-gazing and lack of spaceships.

If it doesn't involve at least one X-Wing, I'm not that interested.

And I was thinking earlier, as I am sometimes wont to do, that it’s been a while since I’ve had a good blood-boiling rage-fest. Or, at the very least, had a blood-boiling rage fest directed at me. This got me thinking about my brief stint at The Daily Beacon, where I was so damn enthused to receive hate mail about all of my wholly irrelevant columns–which I might post up here one day, because hey, why not?

So, please, send me hate mail. I’ll go ahead and tell you my beliefs to make it easier for you.

Also, e-mails, please. (AaronCSimon[at]Gmail[dot]com) I forget about comments on here, and if it goes down on facebook, I’ll just try to troll you.

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