Aren't I the lucky one?
This evening I decided to outsmart my fellow riders and board the bus a few stations before where I normally do. I usually get on the 150 in the University Street Tunnel, and by that time the bus is packed. Tonight I walked to the Convention Place Station. (It isn't actually a tunnel, but the tunnel system seems to start there.) I remember catching a bus there a long time ago, but I haven't been there in years.
I wasn't the only smart rider. The Not-So-Phantom-Menace from the Express bus was also there. He and I were the only ones waiting in the Bay for the 150. As the bus came around the corner to pick us up, we exchanged pleasantries.
Me: Yay! The 150! Happy Holidays.
N.S.P.M.: God I hate this bus.
Me: I know, it's like punishment.
N.S.P.M.: I tried to change my schedule to avoid taking this bastard bus.
I now have a higher appreciation of The Not-So-Phantom-Menace. I wish he'd get on some Paxil to rid himself of his tics. Or better yet, use some Rid to clear up that itchy-scratchy business.
In any case, he and I were the only ones on the bus. We went through the tunnels, although the bus never filled up and was uncharacteristically boring. Except for one man.
The guy sitting next to me.
I purposely chose the back corner seat of the 150 for entertainment/danger/blog material. The incredibly drunk guy had no idea where he was and happened to sit next to me. It must have been fate.
Let's call this guy Captain Morgan. He sure had a little of the Captain in him.
Captain Morgan was young. He did not look old enough to drink, but he sure had been. A lot. It was hard liquor. He reeked of it, and he couldn't keep his eyes open. He flopped down on the seat next to me, fumes coming from him and his really nice oatmeal colored sweater. He wasn't dirty, just filthy drunk. Captain Morgan had a short afro that had retained rainwater and slowly dripped the entire trip to Kent. At every turn of the bus, he'd dramatically -- and unintentionally -- sway back and forth on the seat.
The first time his head landed on my shoulder, he almost woke up.
"Dude. No." I said as I sort of nudged him back into his center of gravity. His hair left a little wet patch on my shirt; this grossed me out.
For the most part, Captain Morgan sat with his head down. He clumsily tried to prop it up with his hand, elbow on his thigh, but he kept swaying. This meant he kept hitting his head on the pole, and he stayed under a foot away from the lap of the girl sitting in front of us. She didn't seem to mind. I did.
This young, amazingly drunk man was going to puke. It was inevitable. I looked at the seating arrangement, and I figured he'd actually miss me. The girls in front of us would get it. The big guy further out might get it, and he'd get pissed because he had nice boots and jeans on. If Captain Morgan lost it, the girls would, too. One of them was very stoned. Her eyes were really glassy and red; she would have giggled, then ralfed. This had potential to be a disgusting 150 ride after all.
When we got off the highway and headed through the asscrack of Kent, Captain Morgan decided he was chilly and put on one furry glove. Just the right one.
Sway, sway, sway through Industrial Land. Sway, sway, <snort>, sway past Southcenter. His head landed on my shoulder again. I shoved him back to center again, this time shooting him a dirty look. He smiled, eyes closed, and told me, "Ahgkjsyuroiwpern." In drunk, this translates to, "Pardon me, sir. My inebriated head has rested upon your shoulder. Forever I shall be sorry, yet I will remember nothing of this incident."
I could not believe we made it all the way to Kent Station without a shower of vomit. I was impressed with Captain Morgan and told him to be careful.
I was the last one off the bus, and I saw another familiar face from the Express bus: The Security Guard. He is cool. We were in line waiting to pay and run for our connecting buses. The Security Guard and I were talking about the Sounder Train.
And then it hit.
We heard several voices from the front of the bus call out in shock and amazement. I knew Captain Morgan had not made it out without leaving his mark. Thank God he held it in until he was away from me. While waiting in line to pay, Captain Morgan barfed all over the front sideways seats and half of the floor. We had to step over splatters to get out.
The bus driver was gagging, calling the station.
"Station [gag]! This is route 150, bus number 7394 [wretch]. I need someone to come [guhhh] clean my coach [gaggg]. Oh God. I can't [cough] drive this back to the [blecch] terminal!"
I was quite happy to be off that bus, standing in the heavy rain for 15 minutes, waiting for the 164 to carry me home. The rain seemed to wash away any particles. I am a lucky guy to come out of that 150 unscathed.
This sign has nothing to do with this post. It's a sign from the tunnel. I like the No Feeding Birds part. That's because sometimes pigeons get in the tunnel, and since everyone gets McDonalds before boarding the 150 at University Street Tunnel, it's a given those birds will eventually get a hold of some hamburger, get the taste of blood, and then start going after people.