Category: Al Bundy

Just call me Deane

Today began like any other: I awoke to the gradually louder and increasingly annoying beeps of my alarm clock, I turned the alarm off, and I went back to sleep. A few minutes later, when I determined that to stay in bed one more minute meant to miss the Loser Cruiser to work, I got out of bed, made my bed (because I’m anal), took a shower, dressed without much thought of the weather, ran out the door as Othello looked on with his puppy-dog-kitty eyes from his spot on the table near the window, and walked up Church Street to the bus station.

When I arrived at the Loser Cruiser hub, I was alarmed to find no Loser Cruiser waiting for me. In the winter, on those typical Vermont snow days, this was expected; but in the warmer months, the bus routine is as predictable as the menstrual cycles of college roommates. I sat down on one of the benches, took out my David Sedaris book, and waited for news of my morning commute’s fate. After another bus’s driver notified Make Out Woman that our bus was broken down and would be delayed at least 30 minutes, and as Make Out Woman and Biography Man walked away (to, I’m guessing, their respective vehicles), I sat next to Hunger Mountain Girl and considered my options. I called Mama Benchly who graciously let me borrow her car and I began walking in that direction, when I suddenly became overwhelmed with a feeling I can only describe as a distant cousin of survivor’s guilt. I turned around, approached Hunger Mountain Girl, and offered her a ride to work. When she accepted, we headed to Mama and Papa Benchly’s home to get the car.

(When we were met at the front door by Brother-in-Law #1, who had just dropped off Niece #2, I was treated to a stinging moment of awkwardness when it became clear to me that he had mistaken Hunger Mountain Girl for Hypothetical. That one’s going to leave a mark, especially for him when my sister finds out and punches him.)

Those who know me best, know that I don’t do well when dealing with strangers. And though Hunger Mountain Girl and I had ridden the bus together for almost a year, my invitation to her this morning were the first words I had ever spoken to her, and the thought of spending the next hour in a car together was an uneasy one. My fears were put to rest soon enough though as we settled into our car and a nice conversation about San Francisco and obnoxiously rich people. On our way out of town, we passed another one of the Loser Cruiser’s stops and when we noticed two fellow passengers waiting impatiently in the rain, we pulled over and offered them a ride. And so, the morning commute to work became the car-pool tale of Mr. Benchly, Hunger Mountain Girl, the Cruiser Snoozer, and Audi Girl.

Most of our conversations stayed far away from anything controversial with the exception of the uncomfortable silence that greeted Hunger Mountain Girl’s observation that most convenience store owners are “foreigners.” The Cruiser Snoozer talked about his children, Audi Girl talked about a town meeting she went to the night before, Hunger Mountain Girl talked about her upcoming two month trip to the West Coast, and I talked about my job and my need for a new one. Hunger Mountain Girl told me that Stonecutter Way Girl’s name was Claire and she was from France (do you hear that, Sarah? She’s FRENCH!!!!) and that while I was sitting in front of her one day, she drew a picture of me. The highlight of the trip, by far, was when we all came together in a union of nostalgia to swap stories about Al Bundy. Oh how we all miss Al Bundy!

As we exited the interstate at the Montpelier exit, Hunger Mountain Girl asked me where I was going to drop everyone off. I said, “might as well do the route.” I then shouted out in my best Deane voice, “anyone for National Life up on the hill?” When no one answered and while everyone silently thought of National Life Guy, I made my way to State Street. I pulled up to the Chittenden Bank and called out “David? David?,” thus mocking Deane’s daily attempt to wake up the Cruiser Snoozer. Finally, I drove down Stonecutter’s Way and pulled over to let out Audi Girl and Hunger Mountain Girl. As they left the car, giving wishes for a good day and gratitude for the ride, I responded the only way I know how: “I’ll see you on the bus.”

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Parts 1-4

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 2.

As I was seated today near the back of the Loser Cruiser bus to Montpelier, a sudden and saddening thought crossed my mind: I’m one of the last remaining Loser Cruiser regulars from the Fall.

Al Bundy – moved to St. Albans and plans to use the St. Albans to Burlington Loser Cruiser. I know this because he told Sarah the L on one of the days I left her alone on the bus to fend for herself.
Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl – no longer rides for whatever reason; maybe because she can’t ride her bike in the snow?
Helen – hasn’t been seen since mid-November. I’m worried about her. They say the suicide rates increase during the holiday season and let’s face it, she never seemed stable.
Duck Girl – I know Sarah the L will contest this statement, but I don’t think she ever existed in the first place.
Make Out Woman – I’m guessing she married her make out partner and has been on a prolonged honeymoon.
Siskel and Ebert – Though they never sat together, they used to ride every day. Now I’m lucky if I see Siskel once a week.
Stonecutter’s Way Girl (we used to exit the bus and walk down this road together) – Missing since before Christmas.
Sarah the L – Now works near Burlington and no longer needs to use the bus. There are no words.

And last, but certainly not least:

Cute Washington Plates Girl – For a few days, I thought she and Cute Red Hat Girl were the same person, but when CRHG removed her cute red hat the other day, I realized they were different and that I hadn’t seen CWPG in many months.

For those of you keeping score, that leaves the following regulars:

– Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy; Mustache Man; Road Rage Man; National Life Guy

Although I’m somewhat comforted by the fact that there are new regulars sharing the ride with me (the aforementioned Cute Red Hat Girl [self-explanatory]; She Totally Wants Me [because she obviously does!]; Scrabble Girl [because she plays computer Scrabble but never asks me if I want to play!]; Soon-to-be Mid-Life Crisis Girl [you can just see it coming]), I miss the old regulars. Maybe one day we’ll have a reunion.

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 3.

After exiting the Loser Cruiser and transferring to the city route that takes me within a block of work, I sat next to Redheaded Bearded Flannel Guy, and across from a blonde haired woman in her late 30s. Halfway through our trip, RBFG started talking to himself. He said things and then laughed to himself. Then he looked around the bus smiling to see if anyone else got the joke. I didn’t laugh though because I didn’t hear the joke. As someone who often tells jokes, I know that I prefer people to laugh only if they hear the joke clearly, understand the joke, and think it’s funny.

Soon enough, RBFG began talking in my direction. What followed was this semi-awkward conversation:

RBFG (pointing at Late 30s Woman) – “She looks like my friend Rhonda. Rhonda’s sister is Peggy.”
Me (first smiling at RBFG and then looking in the direction of Late 30s to give her the “I’m sorry, I really am” look) – “Oh.”
RBFG (now addressing Late 30s) – You look like my friend Rhonda. Her sister’s name is Peggy.”
Late 30s – “Oh. Thank you.”

I mean, seriously, how do you respond to a statement like that? Both Late 30s and I were teased with the silence that followed before RBFG finally spoke up again to compliment Late 30s on her hairstyle: the always-difficult-to-master ponytail. After another “thank you,” Late 30s pushed the Stop Requested tape, quickly exited the bus, and ran away. I imagine I’ll never see her on the bus again.

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 1.

With only music and my thoughts to keep me company on the ride into work this morning, my mind drifted back to a San Francisco trip I took last year and specifically, an early-morning walk on the Pacific Ocean beach that inspired me to write a page of thoughts. What I ended up writing doesn’t exactly convey what I wanted to say but nevertheless, I couldn’t throw it away and here I am offering it up to you:

“I’m sitting on the beach among a genocidal grave of sea creatures desperately in need of the ocean’s breath, which becomes faint as the tide calls its water home. Fruit flies pick at the dead like ungrateful grandchildren at a wake, begging for their morning inheritance. The ocean, having shed part of itself in its daily ceremony, recedes in a parade of olive green topped with white curls to live a day of blue. This is the ocean’s life. Each day, it is buried, mourned, killed, and reborn again. There are no surprises. There are no lies. Or betrayals. There is no guilt and there is no shame. There is only life and death told in a cycle as true as the ocean needing the moon. One day, I will die, be mourned, buried and born again but until then and even then, I will be as impure as an ocean without tides in a life of unexpected love and unforgiving heartache in a world without the ocean’s cleansing touch.” © 2005 Mr. Benchly

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 4.
An embarrassing side note: the other night, on the way home from work, I fell asleep on the bus and nearly missed my stop so yes, that’s right, folks, I am officially a Loser Cruiser Snoozer.

Beeps and Jeeps and General Creeps

This past June, on a semi-hot, terribly muggy, infamously miserable Thursday, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my beloved vehicle of 4 years, Inga Beep the Jeep, and proceeded to drive her to an early grave. For the metaphorically challenged out there, that’s my way of saying I overheated her to the point where smoke came out of her, fluids sprayed all over her, and she stunk up the whole neighborhood. The friendly mechanic and his trusty sidekick were able to bring her back to life but you could tell right away: she wasn’t the same. Part of her died that day. Maybe it was my betrayal of her trust. Maybe it was her Jeepish pride. We’ll never know. Regardless…

To prolong her now painful life, I decided to take advantage of Vermont’s public transportation system and ride the Loser Cruiser bus as much as possible. Burlington to Barre and back for $6. Considering the round trip covers 100 miles total, that’s a hell of a deal.

Riding the bus most mornings has introduced me (and fellow passenger Sarah the L) to an incredibly eclectic universe of environmentally-aware, politically-conscientious, and down-on-their-luck individuals. There are the regulars:

– Al Bundy (picture the Married With Children patriarch, and you’re picturing this passenger).
– Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl (self explanatory)
– Road Rage Man (the guy who went postal on me on Interstate 89)
– Helen (If only because she reminds me of the grandmotherly woman who taught one of my college courses [she’s the one with the mic])

– Mustache Man (again, self explanatory)
– Duck Girl (Sarah the L will have to elaborate on this one because I wasn’t there when the “Duck Conversation” happened)
– Make Out Woman (so named because she was seen making out with her [presumably new] boyfriend while waiting for the bus to arrive

And the not so regulars:
– Cute Washington Plates Girl (cause she drives a car with Washington plates)
– Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy (often seen grading the homework of his elementary school students. Recent assignment, I kid you not: What I Did on My Summer Vacation)

I can only imagine what the regulars call Sarah the L and I. “Gay Girl and Gay Boy”? “Rockstar and her Handsome Friend”?

Anyway, today, on the ride into work, Al Bundy was his usual self and what we polite folk politely call “ANNOYING AS ALL HELL!!!” He talks to you when you’re trying to read; he talks to you when you have headphones on; he talks to you when you pretend you’re talking on your cell phone; he talks to you when you walk away from him; he talks to you when you’re talking to someone else.

As most of you can attest, I don’t do well when strangers talk to me. I can think of a hundred different uncomfortable situations I could be in every day, and having to talk to strangers always tops the list. So essentially, Al Bundy is like the kryptonite to my Superman Commuter World. I can have a great ride into work if I can just get by him. But like Superman, I know I can’t attack him straight on so my sneaky defense lately has been to hide in the back of the bus with my headphones on, my head planted in a book, and my cell phone attached to my ear.

But today, without headphones, and with my book making me carsick, the kryptonite of Al Bundy got to me. He sat in the front seat and talked so loudly I could hear him all the way in the back. Because of all the negativity I associate with him, I pretty much now equate his voice to the moan of a dying mule muffled by styrofoam being rubbed against a chalkboard. Trapped in the back of the bus, I tried to escape but my Superman Commuter World powers were no match for his kryptonic voice. I was defeated. The bus ride ended and I dragged myself down the steps to the sidewalk below as Al Bundy said, “have a nice day.”