The Awful Manifest Of The Old 181

As I've noted, I use public transportation as my primary means of getting around. Trips during the day are often relatively quick and uneventful. Interesting things do happen, and I have written about those things. In the dead of night, however, trips become protracted and considerably more colorful. Ideally, I'm at this time heading home, and not too late to take advantage of the trains. Whether I am or not, I may still need to depend on a bus- what they call a Nite Owl bus. They're so named because they run all night long, and are of considerable psychological comfort simply by being there no matter what turn my plans take. I only wish there were more of them. The one I take most currently is the 180/181, which passes through my neighborhood after originating in Hollywood.

Now, I always take stock of the people on the bus or train I'm on. I've written about this as well, and fairly recently. The best you can hope for is a good mix of people with something going for them and decent, hard-working blue-collar types. They keep to themselves, and some of the female persuasion are rather easy on the eyes. The percentage of these desirable fellow passengers tends to be highest in my experience on the Gold Line headed out to Pasadena from downtown. It remains fairly high on about any train, fluctuating some depending on where the train is. The percentage drops when one comes to most of the buses, although some are exceptions. There are no exceptions among the Nite Owl buses I have ridden. There are a few of the blue collar types, but not enough.

What makes up the bulk of the people on the 180/181? There are two groups: The asleep and just plain crazies. It's more the exception than the rule when I get on in Hollywood and get off at home without wishing fervently most of the way that I could get off immediately on account of people around me who make my skin crawl. The best case scenario is that they don't do anything other than be like that. Incidents are not unknown, however. Crazies are not against initiating conversations, whether they be the lucid type or not. I much prefer to be surrounded by sleeping riders of uncertain financial stability. They're not about to do anything for good or ill. I find myself quickly forgetting they're there as I get engrossed in the book I'm carrying. The crazies make it difficult to stick to my reading at all. I write it off, and breath a sigh of relief when I get off the bus.

There are a number of specific occasions that come to mind. Not so long ago, I found myself unwillingly drawn into conversation with a stoner and an old creep. The former insisted that I was a dead ringer for somebody to whom it's no compliment to be compared. Regrettably, that wasn't the end of that conversation. Another time, a drunk man took it upon himself to overcome the limitations of his portable music device and share it with us all through his own voice. Sadly, the driver put a stop to it. Just the other night, in a bus half-filled with apparent slumbering vagrants, one scantily-clad man with some kind of heated grievance came back to where I was seated in search of some lost item. I gathered that it was a scrap of paper containing phone numbers, possibly for his sister and mother. I tried to be sympathetic in a way that said plainly, "Don't engage me any further". It seemed to work, and I counted myself fortunate.

Now, I don't mean to turn people off the idea of riding the bus. It's good for the environment and saves money. Sometimes it's less than ideal as a practical consideration, but never fails to inspire creativity in me personally. Sometimes I imagine myself as a sort of Henry Miller or Bukowski. Of course, that comparison only goes so far, because I'm really not all that much like either man except in some of the places I find myself and people I encounter. For Miller it was pre-war Paris, for Bukowski post-war LA. For me, maybe it's Metro. Every arduous oddysey- every near-violent exchange witnessed- every uncomfortable time waiting for the bus to begin with- it's all grist for the mill.