I knew the bus ride would be eventful when I heard, as I tossed my quarters into the coin bucket, the turbaned black lady argue, to no one in particular, that "this ain't no thirty-fo'th street, y'hear? This ain't no thirty-fo'th!" Bear in mind, we were stopped just south of 79th street and any expectations of 34th would be a little on the premature side. Always game to watch lunatics, I grabbed a seat with a decent angle on the woman, who I now noticed was sporting a plastic bag tied to each ankle (either to ineffectively keep her socks from getting dirty slush on them or to stop aliens from biting her shins) and glistening, cherry-red lipstick. I can only assume the lipstick was meant to twinkle because the corners of her mouth were moist with that special kind of spittle that only real maniacs don't realize is there. Needless to say, she continued to squirm in her seat and talk to the air until she got off at 59th street (which I should point out to the reader is still nowhere near 34th Street. It doesn't even have a fucking 3 or 4 in it). As we pulled away, I realized I could still hear her voice because, sadly, she was walking along side of the bus and screaming at it as it rolled out of sight.
At the next stop, what appeared to be Rainbow Brite's grandmother got on, in that she was a seventy-something light skinned black lady wearing a giant blue hat (really. GIANT) and matching vest (with a bizarro-world red, black, and green American flag sewn into it, like, I don't know, she was a citizen of negative-space America) and a fire engine red shirt. She looked like the mayor of Nutsville as she bopped along to her iPod that I would bet good money wasn't even switched on.
Trying to not laugh out loud, I glanced over at this other woman who looked awfully familiar. While I was trying to figure out who she was, I read that the title of the book she had in her hands was "Booty Call" and figured that meant I probably didn't know her after all.