A crackhead wanted to help me mount my bicycle onto the bus last night; at least that’s what he told me once I had already accomplished the task and boarded. He said he wanted to help me, that is. He didn’t say the crackhead thing. That spoke for itself.
I am pretty new at traveling on the bus with a bike – I’ve probably gone through the process a handful or so of times. It’s not that difficult to do, but it did take me several mantles and dismantles to really get the hang of. I just had to watch other people, and then do.
I rode my bike 2.5 miles to work on Thursday but was not quite feeling the trip home, so I decided to use my beautiful monthly bus pass and travel on public transit with my two wheeler. After arranging my bike and getting on the bus I was greeted by the middle-aged man with gaps in his smile who told me he was “just about to get off the bus” to help me get my bike on the rack, and that he would have walked home from there because it was only six blocks away.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s nice of you.”
I then sat two rows ahead of him and faced the front.
“Yeah, I’m getting off at 26th Ave,” I heard him say from behind, obviously talking to me.
“You’re probably going all the way up to 70th Street, aren’t you?” He asked me.
“Yes,” I told him, even though it wasn’t true.
“You probably live in Westminster, don’t you?” he then inquired.
“Yes,” I lied to him again, as is a wise thing to do when a crackhead on the bus inquires about the geographic location of your domicile.
As promised, the passive good Samaritan got off the bus only a few blocks up the road, but not before causing a little bit of a commotion.
First he exited out the back door and shouted, “Bye, bye Mr. Bus Driver!” as he stepped off.
Once outside the bus he ran to the front door and told the bus driver that he never received a transfer ticket. The bus driver seemed to think the guy was pulling a fast one, but reluctantly handed him a transfer ticket.
“Thank you,” the guy babbled. “I’m a good man and an honest person, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
By now a few passengers were laughing and rolling their eyes.
“Thank you!” he repeated. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I’ll see you again,” he promised the bus driver as the door slammed in his face and we drove away.
I got off at my stop which was just a little further up the road and lifted my bike off the bus like a champ. I rode it 0.8 miles to my house, ate dinner and then consumed what was to become the very last serving of chocolate peanut butter ice cream that I will ever have again in my entire lifetime.
Apparently I’ve developed some sort of intolerance to the chocolate/peanut duo. But that’s another ‘capade TBD…