Category: Loser Cruiser

I could hide ‘neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings

“But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory and us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell in our dreaming and singing
A little apart from ye.”

– Arthur O’Shaughnessy

On a Wednesday evening last fall, on my way home from Trivia Night in Mama Benchly’s car, I found myself stopped at a red light a few miles down the road from my home. While listening to the late-night radio and patiently but tiredly waiting for the light to change to green, I noticed a 20-something man in a wheelchair rolling his way across the crosswalk. As he neared the midway point to the other side of the road, he stopped rolling and looked my way. He let out a big grin, pressed a button on the armrest and instantly, the chair took off by itself at a seemingly unsafe speed, stopped on a dime, did a 360-degree turn, and sped the rest of the way to safety. Before I could question what had just occurred, the light turned green and I began the final leg of my trip home.

In the movie Office Space, the main character says that when determining what to do for the rest of your life, you need only to look at your answer to the question “what would you do if you had $1 million?” His answer: “Nothing. I’d do nothing all day.” What about you?

The recent $315 million (and counting) PowerBall lotto jackpot has caused quite a commotion in my office and while I’ll be the first to admit that I’m partially responsible for this unprofessional distraction, it’s fair to say that these visions of being-able-to-purchase-one-billion-sugar-plums dancing in our heads would have existed without my encouragement. As per the usual human behavior when wondering if you’ll win the all-too-elusive multi-million-dollar jackpot, the office and carpool topic of conversation has consistently centered around the trivial Office-Space-like “what would you do with the money?” question. I’ve discovered that a great many hours of entertainment can come from debating such a question with others or, if you’re as pathetic as I am, with yourself.

This past weekend’s drawing produced six numbers that proved to be unlucky for the millions upon millions of money-greedy Americans who seemingly played every combination of numbers except for the six correct ones, and consequently, the jackpot increased by $25 million. When the jackpot surpassed $180 million, I took interest, and I have since purchased a total of 14 1/2 tickets (Freckles and I split one) and of all the numbers I selected between 1 and 55 on all of the tickets I purchased (a total of approximately 30 unique numbers), I managed to match exactly two of them. As luck would have it, though, these winning numbers were on the same ticket and so, naturally, in spite of Freckles’s concerns, I did the Gambling Addict Dance into the local convenience store to exchange my $4 prize for four more $1 tickets to the next $205 million drawing. Needless to say, a few days later, I was not dancing as I made my way to the trash can to dispose of the losing tickets.

That day, on my drive back from the convenience store where I was hoping my life had taken the beginning (read: $4) steps to changing forever, I imagined what would happen if I won and, to simply and redundantly put it, my life was changed forever. Knowing that it would be impossible to spend all of that money in my lifetime except, of course, if I decided to buy 205 million lottery tickets, and because I like to imagine being able to provide for those I love, I imagined scenarios in which I was able to reveal to loved ones how all financial stresses in their lives had vanished in the time it took a machine to randomly select six ping pong balls. And because I’ve never been prescribed medication to prevent me from doing so, I imagined in my head, the hypothetical conversations that would happen if such an event took place.

After walking through the literal and metaphorical doorway back into the sane real world of my insanely mind-numbing job in the town known for producing granite, which, on my ultra-cynical days, I believe to be the only product the collective workforce of the town is qualified to produce, I attempted to silence these voices and return to work. As I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate except when focusing on how to spend millions of dollars, I decided that these imaginary conversations and “what if?” debates are not-too-distant cousins of the people-watching game I described in a previous entry. Simply stated, they’re the favored past-times of daydreamers. What followed this realization was an epiphany the likes of which I’ve never experienced save the day I realized that Pickles were Cucumbers, now they’re Pickles, not Cucumbers.

While moments as bizarre as the wheelchair incident do not occur on a daily basis, it’s safe to say that more often than not, I find myself in situations that beg me to question their reality. Whether I’m unexpectedly but delightfully thrown into the role of Loser Cruiser driver for a day, or playing chess against Niece #1, or contemplating staying at a Shaker bed and breakfast, or driving a bride to her wedding, or seeing a man driving to work while practicing his clarinet, or walking down the street side-by-side with a friend on a unicycle, or joining a nomad, a drunk, and a paraplegic to make up the audience for an impromptu street performance, I almost always feel as though only my imagination could have ever invented the life I’m living.

As time passed by, I began to wonder if that’s all this really is; is my life the product of my imagination? My creation? My daydream? And that’s when I had my epiphany, which, subsequently, gave me my answer to the Office Space question. If I win the lottery and I have millions of dollars, and even if I don’t, and if/when I have to decide what to do for the rest of my life, I now know what my answer is: I’ll daydream. So if you need me, I’ll just be over in this corner, imagining a winning lottery ticket.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

I’m sitting in my Church Street apartment in Burlington, contemplating the end of another summer while the afternoon sun paints my maroon living room walls with the golden colors of its slow, yet far-too-quick descent to the other side of the horizon, where it will rest while pondering tomorrow’s fate. As I try to recall all of the activities of this past summer (read: all the reasons why I’ve slacked off on my blog), I’m reminded of the “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” papers that Loser Cruiser passenger Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy was busy grading on the ride home from work last fall. When I was growing up, I used to dread writing that paper as much as I loved it. I dreaded it because it was my first homework assignment of many; I loved it because I got to talk about me. In that sense, and serving as a perfect closure to the introduction of this long-overdue entry, all I can say is that some things never change.

It’s only fitting to mention that infamous elementary school assignment when you consider that summer is the season when most of us are finally able to reacquaint ourselves with our inner child (mine was hiding out in my Inhibitions and Social Anxiety Closet). With the fine exception of Mama Benchly who, for various reasons, prides herself on being unremittingly in touch with her inner child, most of the rest of us adults corrupted by society’s cynicism and realism are only truly able to interact with this exuberant, whimsical, passionate, and youthful spirit when summer is in season.

It seems that only when the summer sun has come out to play for a few months do we see grown and overgrown men shrug off their aching muscles to return to a baseball diamond, and mothers fiercely compete against their adult offspring at any of those barbecue/picnic-friendly games (croquet, badminton, bocce, etc.), and grandfathers challenge their grandsons in cut-throat amusement park video game rides, and 30-year-old women plead like Nieces #1–3 to set off “just one more” firecracker, and 20-something friends return to the playground to have a go at the swings after throwing frisbees around all day, and a young couple see just how fast they can travel together on a jet ski.

Needless to say, I’ve had a really rewarding summer this year, and the summer began, as many successful summers often do, with a great new romance. After describing the last few months as rewarding, it was no surprise for me to realize that my courtship with Freckles began to take shape about the same time the official first day of summer came to pass. And while I’m thankful for Freckles for a number of reasons that I won’t delve into in this entry, I must acknowledge how incredibly grateful I am for having her in my life because if it were not for her, I wouldn’t have experienced half of what I did this summer.

The summer began with not one, but two summer beer-drinking softball leagues on Bad News Bears teams that threatened to break the long-standing record 6% winning percentage set by the Giants, my Little League baseball team. We couldn’t hit, we couldn’t field, we didn’t know where to throw the ball, or when not to throw it, and at the end of each game, the official boxscore resembled the betting odds for a Kentucky Derby long shot. But like most men given the opportunity to play the game they love, we had fun. With beer.

Thanks to Freckles and her unbelievably generous family, I was fortunate to spend a few summer afternoons and evenings at a camp on Lake Champlain where the aforementioned croquet and jet skiing took place. And as a too-good-to-be-true encore, I was also given the opportunity to accompany Freckles to her cousin’s Florida wedding in August. The only question that remains is how to properly thank people who, without hesitation or second-thought, gave so freely and so much? Needless to say, I’m still working on that one.

The rest of the summer was filled to the brim with disc golf with Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary’s birthday party celebration campout on a lake, canoeing, hiking with friends, time spent with the nieces, and all the other activities that make you feel young again, even if your 28-year-old body has a different opinion.

And then, just as I started to believe that I had recaptured the innocence I lost far too long ago, I was reminded that I can never go back to the world I once knew because as the summer sun began to set on this great season once again, I was assaulted with the kind of news only the sheltered Nieces #1–3 could have possibly overlooked: my company laid off nearly one-fifth of its workforce so that it could “continue to stay competitive”; Hurricane Katrina destroyed the way of life for hundreds of thousands of people; and gas prices soared to levels only Europeans ever thought were possible. And while I found some solace in one of the most powerful images of my short life (a seemingly infinite line of my fellow citizens ready to donate food and supplies to the hurricane victims), I can’t shake the reality that my childhood has left me, and in its place now stands an unforgiving and stressful world of pain and sorrow.

A. Bartlett Giamatti once wrote that baseball was a game designed to break you heart; that “you count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.” And now, as I prepare to face the chill rains of fall in this terrible, wonderful world, I think the same can be said for summer.

The (Commuting) Choices We Make

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new car now allows me to afford. But as I drove to work on the interstate, my thoughts were not of the sweet dreams I had had after my alarm clock sounded, or the joys one feels while driving a nice new car, but rather of the money I was soon going to be losing should I continue to drive solo to work every day.

I recently talked to The Doctor about carpooling again. He’s open to the idea but because of his current physical therapy schedule and his son’s daycare schedule, he can’t start for a few weeks. We’ve made plans to meet in the park ‘n’ ride lot in mid-June, so now I’m trying to determine my best commuting option until then. For as long as it is federally funded, however inconvenient it may be, the Loser Cruiser is always an option. But last night’s drive home brought with it an interesting plot twist to my life:

I left work last night shortly after the Toad hopped away (only Sarah will get this reference) and headed to the parking lot to find my still-unnamed vehicle (the latest suggestions: Silver-Door Dolly, Silver Otto, Jane Honda, Rhonda, Carmine, Gertrude, and Timothy) parked next to a blue car being opened by the new girl, Freckles. We both started our cars and Freckles took a right turn out of the parking lot with me close behind her. 45 minutes later, we both took the same South Burlington exit before finally heading in different directions into town.

Evidently, it seems that Freckles makes the same daily commute as I do and so she could very well be interested in carpooling with me, and then in mid-June, with me and The Doctor. This was news to me, because, as will not be news to you, in the two or three weeks that she has worked here, I’ve said less than 10 words to her. Although the silent treatment I’ve given Freckles has everything to do with the fact that she’s a new employee and that it generally takes me 2 to 3 months to be comfortable enough with someone to randomly talk to him/her (those irrational trust issues again), I’m now hesitant to address this commuting issue with her for a completely separate reason: she’s unfairly cute (and yes, Sarah, she’s wife cute).

You see, I have a history of carpooling with attractive women. In the 5 years that I’ve been carpooling, it has happened twice: Veronica Japanica (named as such in honor of her car’s nickname) and Widget (named as such because this is what Veronica Japanica called her). While both carpools ultimately ended, only one ended positively. Veronica and I were roommates, coworkers, and carpool buddies meaning that on any given day, we spent close to 16 hours in each other’s company. Strangely enough, it worked out just fine because we were friends who had separate lives.

When Veronica moved away, however, my next carpooling buddy taught me an invaluable life lesson: like beer and milk, coworkers that date and carpool do not mix. (The only thing more dangerous is dating a roommate, which is like mixing vodka with engine oil.) As I briefly mentioned in a past entry, Widget and I started dating a few months after we began carpooling and what seemed to be a wonderfully convenient situation quickly turned into a depressingly uncomfortable one post-break-up. The months at work that followed our break-up were nothing short of a hell where you’re forced to drink milk/beer/engine oil cocktails.

After Widget and I crashed and burned (though, not literally, thankfully), gas prices and my budget were such that I still needed to carpool, but for my sanity’s sake, I needed to carpool with someone for whom there would be no chance of falling. The Doctor was a healthy alternative because he is one of the nicest individuals I have ever met, he’s a good friend, his sense of humor is unrivaled, and well, he’s a he. The Doctor and I started carpooling and continued to do so successfully for close to a year until the infamous Inga Overheating Incident. Ever since then, it’s been the Loser Cruiser all the way with the occasional solo commutes in Mama or Papa Benchly’s vehicles and the always treasured moments spent in Inga and Sarah the L’s Daisy (after we both missed the LC).

Now that I’m a member of the car-owners’ club, I’m struggling to decide if I should ask Freckles to join The Doctor and me in our quest to save the planet while simultaneously saving money. On one hand, she will help to reduce the priceless wear-and-tear mileage on our vehicles while we all pocket loads of cash. On the other hand, she’s young, she’s intelligent (I even think she has an English degree!), she’s cute, and I wouldn’t stand a chance in her 2-hours-a-day presence. As I post this, I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

After sleeping in this morning, I left for work approximately 20 minutes after the Loser Cruiser typically leaves the bus station in the morning. When I caught up with the Loser Cruiser on the highway, I knew she was running a little late (Deane doesn’t drive slowly). As I passed the bus and returned to the right lane, bringing the Loser Cruiser into my rearview mirror, I realized that I am reluctantly closing one commuting chapter in my book, while anxiously looking ahead to the story that awaits me on the next page. Hopefully this story has a happy ending.

0 to debt in 3.5 hours

I did something this weekend that I should have done a long time ago. I bought a car. And not just any car; a NEW car. And not just any new car; a car so new it had less mileage on it than what my dad and I had to drive round trip to get to the dealer. This car is so new, you can smell the perfume and cologne of the underpaid assembly line workers.

For the car fanatics out there, here are the essentials: it’s a 2-door, silver, standard Honda Civic DX Coupe with black interior and it gets 38 miles per gallon. And the engine…well…the engine’s pretty and won’t need a tune up for “110,000 miles.” It comes with a CD player, air conditioning, two cup holders (don’t laugh, Inga never had ’em), 4 tires, a very cool (free state inspections for the life of your car) value package deal, and the coolest freakin windshield wipers you’ve ever wiped your windshields with. And in the words of not one, but two of my female coworkers (both of whom, I suspect having a crush on me), “you’re going to get some chicks with that car!”

This car’s entrance into my life, though, has presented me with four very difficult dilemmas:

1. Inga. What to do with Inga? Poor Inga Beep the Jeep has been sitting in my parking lot since mid-winter and has not started since mid-February. While her body remains, her soul has gone on to a better lot. So far, I think I have the following options:

a. selling her for parts at the Jeep dealer;
b. paying a small fee to have her taken to a junkyard; or
c. donating her to the Kidney Foundation, who will tow her for free, and which will allow me to write off the donation on next year’s taxes.

Obviously, c is the best option and the one with which I feel the most comfortable but I’m new at this donation thing so if anyone out there knows of a better donation option, please let me know.

2. The Loser Cruiser. Considering this bus has provided me with more inspiration than my 3 hours with Sally on Inspiration Point after the prom, it’s going to be tough to completely turn my back on Deane and the other regulars. But considering I’ll most likely resume car-pooling with The Doctor, and on the days I won’t be car-pooling, I’ll probably be playing softball and will need a car, I can’t see myself using The Loser Cruiser all that often. Maybe I could ride it once a week for old time’s sake?

3. Now that I’ll be driving more, I risk putting on the 20 pounds I’ve lost since I began riding the bus and started walking everywhere. I’m not so concerned with this, however, because I can honestly say that in the last 6 months, I’ve developed quite the appetite for exercise. My rule will continue to be: if it’s located within 1 mile of my house, I’m walking there.

4. Most importantly, what to name her? All of my cars have had memorable names (eg, Noise, Old Yeller, Inga). The new car must have an equally great name. I’m not going to force it though; I believe that a car’s name should come naturally, thus producing rewarding results in the end (eg, Daisy, Veronica Japanica, Manny, The Beast, Fairmoni, Fanny Muffles, etc). If anyone out there has any suggestions, please let me know. And no, I’m not going to call her “The Other Woman,” a nickname that carries with it an uncomfortable acronym.

Karma’s not a bitch

Last night’s happenstance occurred at the corner of Main and S. Winooski on my way home from Pure Pop. That’s where I ran into Montana Girl who was on her way to Muddys for coffee. I joined her and said “raspberry iced tea” when Georgia behind the counter asked for my order. I handed Georgia $10 and only when I had reached my seat did I realize that Georgia had given me change for $5. Montana Girl said I should ask for correct change but the moment had passed and I decided to let it slide in the hopes that karma might return the favor someday. This morning, while exiting the Loser Cruiser, Deane handed me a 10-ride pass (a $40 value) “for all of the trouble caused by last week’s break-downs.

Two Thums WAY Up!

Not since Tony Danza realized the difference between microwaves and toaster ovens in 1989 has there been such a revelation as there was this morning on my Loser Cruiser commute. During a bus-ride of, I’m compelled to say, skilled eavesdropping on my part, I discovered that Ebert watched all three extended-version Lord of the Rings movies back-to-back-to-back this weekend…with his PARTNER! That’s right, folks, Ebert’s gay!!! The only thing that could have possibly been more enjoyable than hearing him say his partner’s obviously-masculine name would have been hearing him call his partner “Gene.”

In other Loser Cruiser news, semi-regular Richmond Park ‘n’ Rider Plain Jane revealed to the Cruiser community what we all suspected but didn’t dare say (most because of common courtesy and respect; me because I don’t talk on the bus): she’s pregnant! Mazel tov!

Measuring the marigolds

In a symbolic tribute to the recent events of my life, Deane returned to full-time duties on the Loser Cruiser this week and the substitute driver was banished to a lifetime of crappy routes. (Though my friends [and even I] will claim that the substitute’s banishment to a lifetime of more sensitive, considerate, compassionate, and respectful routes capable of sending emails without typos would be a more fitting tribute to my life.) Of course, Deane defines “full-time” as 6 hours a day, Monday through Thursday, leaving Friday to another driver I have unaffectionately nicknamed Fidgety Friday.

Fidgety Friday is so named for his inability to sit still for more than 5 seconds. If he’s not adjusting the height of his seat, he’s adjusting his position on the seat; if he’s not adjusting the in-bus mirrors, he’s looking in them; if he’s not switching lanes to let someone much slower pass us, he’s stopping completely to give someone else our right of way; if he’s not scratching his nose, he’s adjusting his glasses; if he’s not rolling up his sleeves, he’s taking a drink of water; etc. And as anyone who has ever ridden a bus of this size on an interstate before will tell you, its sensitive steering means that the last thing you want is a bus driver who can’t sit still. Consequently, my mornings on the last day of each week typically begin with motion sickness.

Unfortunately, I must admit that I am discussing this topic because I am not the most appropriate person to be leading this discussion. Like murderers who have held their secret crimes inside for too long, my ex-girlfriends will eagerly tell you that a perfectly comfortable cuddling position with me never lasts more than ten minutes because either my arm starts to twitch, I get a leg cramp, my nose itches, or the heat of the pillow convincingly suggests that it needs to be flipped. Those instances when she and I fall asleep cuddling and wake up more than an hour later in the same position are so few and far between, I consider them historic and consequently, I can actually recite the times and places in which they occurred.

When I was growing up, Mama Benchly actually dubbed me “Inch Worm” after the Anne Murray song of the same name. “Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds. Seems to me you’d stop and see how beautiful they are.” I craved the affection that came with being held and rocked to sleep, but my energy was such that I could not sit still. (When I was born, I had so much energy, the doctors even suggested putting sneakers on my feet and letting me run home.) Hearing my mother sing this song to me in her soft and familiarly comforting voice always calmed my nerves and put me to sleep. Despite this twist lacking in irony, I consistently tested the patience of both myself and my mother.

As Niece #2 has recently proved, this trait is definitely a genetic one. I constantly see her struggle when her desire for cuddling conflicts with her inability to keep still. Considering she is only 3 years old, I don’t yet have enough heart in me to confess to her that, evidently, we are both doomed to a cruel fate of an unending appetite for and incurable resistance to cuddling. Why are we so restless? When all we want is to feel that emotional connection and purpose and security and comfort one feels while physically so close to someone else, after we’ve reached this goal, why are we seemingly so eager to push it away? Is it a purely physical response or is it much more? Are we sabotaging our happy lives on purpose? And if so, why? Because, it seems to me that we should stop and see how beautiful they are.

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.”

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 2: My Juxtapositional Life

Part 1.
For the next few weeks, the Loser Cruiser will be driven by a substitute driver while its regular driver, Deane, visits with his son who is on leave from the military. I don’t know the new driver’s name but she seems nice and unlike the regular Friday morning driver Steve, she actually knows how to drive a big bus and how to drive on the highway.

Tuesday morning, I was the lone passenger as we departed the B’town bus station. Monday morning, the driver had to ask where to make one of the turns but by Tuesday, having memorized the route completely, her only question was whether or not to stop to pick up a man standing at a bus stop on the side of the road. Without hesitation, I said, “no, he’s waiting for another bus. Deane always waves to him as we pass him.” I was alarmed at how familiar I’ve become with the route and routine.

A few minutes later, I instructed the driver to stop for the silver-haired Daddy Sutherland standing on the side of the road nowhere near a bus stop. I’m not particularly fond of this man, a state senator, but I figured it was my civil responsibility to make sure he made it to work on time. Not coincidentally, I was reminded of a recent conversation I overheard him having with another state senator in which he said, “sometimes you have to vote for the things you disagree with in order to make sure the ones you really want pass.”

As the bus made its way onto the highway and its patrons cozied into their seats for their morning nap or read, I wondered what it must feel like to be a substitute driver. For all I know, she’s only been hired until Deane returns in which case, what must it feel like to do a job efficiently while lacking any job security whatsoever and never knowing if the seat you’re sitting in is a temporary or a permanent one? And if you were worried you were only in a temporary job, would you have it in you to do the job well?

Part 2.
Wednesday was Othello’s 4th birthday. To accommodate everyone’s schedules (including my own), I scheduled a birthday party for Tuesday night. After spending the first half hour eating and talking and letting Othello get used to so many people in the apartment, my mother, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Jay Peak, CAT, Hypothetical, Montana Girl, Surfboard Guy, and I quietly sang happy birthday to the kitty while Smoochie Poo carried into the room a food dish with Fancy Feast and a lit candle in it.

After Othello ate a little of his birthday “cake” and while he went to the bathroom 5 or 6 times (he’s a nervous kitty and his bladder goes crazy whenever he’s nervous), I opened his presents for him. Considering that Othello was able to cope with an apartment full of people and then he spent most of the night playing with his new toys, I think it’s safe to say the party was a success.

Afterwards, after most everyone had left, I sat there with Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo, playing catch up for all the time we’ve lost now that Sarah no longer works with me. At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to watch her kitty for a day or two this weekend while she and Smoochie traveled to Connecticut. Considering I had no way of getting to her apartment, I had to regretfully decline. This prompted Sarah to wonder if her indoor kitty would be OK alone for two days. I reminded her of what I had heard about cats: most cats, after being left alone 2-3 days, believe their food supply has been cut off and start looking for a new home. So while her kitty wouldn’t be able to escape, she would most certainly greet Sarah’s return with a very cold shoulder.

Part 3.
This next part, I’m surprised to say, I’m finding incredibly difficult to write. Last night, as is always the case on the second Wednesday of every month, was Trivia Night. My team, the Hotties, gathered for yet another attempt at the Trivia Crown. Our team consisted of myself, CP, CP’s mother, CP’s brother and his girlfriend. Sadly, Sarah the L was not in attendance. The night started without fanfare as we barely found an open table at which to sit. We were surrounded by obnoxiously drunk legislators and for a brief moment, I considered packing it in and calling it a night. But then…

After the first three rounds, One Flew Over the Hotties Nest (our name for the night) found itself alone atop the leader board with a perfect score. Only after the next two rounds when, unlike past Trivia Nights, we found ourselves just one point out of first place, did we begin to think something different was happening. And even then, we were prepared to lose. You see, we Hotties are accustomed to losing. We’re like Cubs’ fans and our motto has always echoed what a summer beer league softball coach once told my team: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s HOW you lose that matters.”

I’ve spent the last three years of my Trivia Night life crafting email invitations and recaps detailing every which possible way we Hotties could lose. And this is why I’m having trouble finding the right words to say. How do you say “we won”? After so many times trying and failing, after so many close calls and near misses, after so many nights when you dared fate by trying to glimpse into your glorious future, after so many heart-breaking finishes, how do you say you won? I think I’m unable to find the right words because I’m in shock and I’m having trouble accepting the reality. I expect to wake from this dream. But man, oh man, what a sweet dream it is.

The Straw

This morning, after departing from the Loser Cruiser and transferring to the City Route that takes me to within one block of my job, I found myself sitting in the front seat and directly in front of a woman in her early 60s who, for reasons that will shortly become painfully obvious, will be known as The Straw. From the conversation she had with a passenger who had recently exited the bus, I surmised that she was on her way to a nursing home to visit her elderly mother.

The highlight of The Straw’s conversation with her friend was when she told him that she was receiving weekly work payments under the table, “you know, ‘hush hush,'” and some weeks when her food stamps were low, she used that money for food, but most weeks she used it for Bingo. And sometimes, she saved up for a few weeks for the “big Bingo.”

At the penultimate stop before mine, the driver parked the bus and left the engine running while he used the bathroom at the local gas station (you’ve gotta love Vermont). Now, I’ve been using the public transportation system for 6 months and I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the busses, their routes, and their passengers so I could tell instantly upon boarding this bus, that The Straw was a Bus Butterfly. In other words, she stopped at nothing to make sure she conversed with all onboard. I, on the other hand, am a Bus Beta. I want to be left alone because otherwise, I may bite your head off. An exaggeration, but you get the point.

As soon as the driver exited the bus stage right for the bathroom, leaving me alone with The Straw, I knew I was in for trouble and so naturally, I pretended to fall asleep. But The Straw was not going to be stopped this morning. After about 45 seconds of silence, she spoke up and declared in a giddy voice that would rival the voice of any toddler with chocolate, “when I get to my mother’s, I get to put my teeth back in.” Crickets. Crickets. Crickets.

At this point, I’m doing the fake, drifting-off-to-sleep, head bob; you know, like a grand piano being lowered from the 3rd floor of an apartment building, slowly but surely, my head is going down…down…down to sleep. The Straw wasn’t buying it. “I hear it’s supposed to get up to 34 today. 34! And it’s only going to get warmer for the rest of the week. We may even hit 40 on Sunday.” wait for it. wait for it. wait for it. “Why, I think we’re having a regular HEAT wave! Ha!” Crickets. Crickets. Crickets.

I pretended to wake up as soon as the driver returned and shut his door. And after the driver arrived at my stop while in the midst of a sneezing attack he blamed on his dairy allergy (“Dairy could kill me but I’ve got to have my chocolate milk!”), and as I left the bus while The Straw said, “have a good day, sir!”, I knew what had to be done.

Today, I informed my boss that I’m beginning the process of looking for a new job and asked her to be one of my references. So it begins.