The Bus Ride

Now That's Entertainment

During my freshman year of college, the daily 20-minute commute on a city bus was usually dull. Like me, my fellow passengers were only interested in just getting to our destinations. I spent the time usefully, basking in a bitterness and self-hate fueled by not having my own car and not having enough money to live in a dorm on campus.

The route went by a huge Veterans Administration hospital grounds. It was surrounded by a wooded area and a long street that entered the grounds. The woods provided a protected spot for the neighborhood drunks, hobos and bums - out of the view of the police and other people that may cause them trouble.

I would get on the bus about six or seven stops ahead of the VA stop. Sometimes in early morning rush hour, the bus would be pretty packed by then. Every seat would fill up, with some people having to stand.

Over the months of riding the route, I noticed an old man who would regularly get on and off at the VA. The way he acted and talked with others, he was a drunk or mentally ill or both. When he got close and you got a whiff of the alcohol floating cartoon-style off of his body, you received the answer to part one of the riddle. The mental health issue, though, was still up for conjecture. As he made his way to his seat, he would direct conversations at passengers even if they didn’t respond. It was best to avoid eye contact and not get him started.

He would purposely sit in the seats directly in front or back of a person, even if there were plenty of empty seats available elsewhere. His mind and mouth had no filter, so he would shout out inappropriate things. Once, he sat behind a couple and tried having a conversation with them. They painfully tried to ignore him. Suddenly he blurted out, ‘I bet she has a nice pussy, right?’

Oh, and did I mention he also had a fake right arm - with a hook for a hand?

One morning he got on the bus during rush hour. I was in a seat next to a woman, pretty far in the back. I noticed that almost every seat had someone sitting in it. Fortunately, people had occupied all the seats around me. After paying the fare, the one-armed drunk stumbled his way through the bus and spotted the only remaining empty seat. Actually, two empty side-by-side seats. So he slid over and took the window seat, all the while mumbling about the morning, making rude comments and reeking of alcohol.

I could see him take off his jacket, or at least I thought he was. Suddenly, after a lot of adjusting himself and moving around, up popped his good arm, and in his hand he held the now unattached fake arm. It was as though he was proudly showing it off to everyone. He then placed the fake arm on the empty seat next to him.

The next few stops were very entertaining. He continued to talk to himself. When people would get on the bus, after paying the fare, they would look toward the back and try to spot an empty seat. As each new passenger made their way to the back of the bus, I watched their eyes and their expressions. Initially, they appeared disappointed to see no empty seats and resigned themselves to the prospect of standing. But their eyes would then light up with hope when they saw the man and what appeared to be an empty seat next to him. As they moved closer and closer to the ‘empty’ seat, their eyes would dart and their facial expression would turn quickly. It was hard for me not to laugh at their shocked faces.

When they got closer, the one-armed drunk would look up and yell, ‘Yeah, I only have one arm! One arm I say!’ The passenger would then continue walking. People looked on, some in shock or fear, others like me, almost laughing. One after another, new passengers would walk down the aisle, at first hopeful and then grimacing. The one-armed drunk continued to say the same thing ‘Yeah, I only have one arm! One arm I say!’ But then he changed to, ‘What are you looking at? Yeah, I have one arm and a fake one.’ Then, ‘No, you can’t sit here, this seat is for my arm!’ When an attractive woman walked by, he proclaimed, ‘You can have this seat, honey, just put the arm on your lap!’ What a gentleman. She declined the invitation.

But then, just like that, he bolted out of his seat. He reached up with his good arm and pulled the cord to signal the next stop. He got out of his seat and, holding his fake arm with his real hand, he headed to the front of the bus. The bus stopped, he stumbled down the steps, and he was off. As the doors closed behind him, I am proud to say that I was one of many who laughed loudly at the proceedings. When the bus pulled away, the one-armed drunk looked up and waved his still unattached fake arm at all of us. I smiled as I headed to start my day of classes. He smiled as he headed to his next drink. Now that’s entertainment.