Little dog

By Amy

Sometimes after a stressful night at work, or if I'm simply in a cranky mood, I don't want to deal with anyone on the bus, even though since I started this blog I have made it my mission to be on the lookout for bus stories.

When I'm in stress mode, I cease to observe. I cross my arms and try to keep my leg from touching that of the person sitting beside me. I stare out the window, avoiding eye contact with passengers as they board or turning around to find out who's causing a ruckus in the back seats.

I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to hear anybody's drama. I shut down.

But on this particular summer night, as I waited under the antique street lamp in the South Park Blocks for the No. 6, I felt open to life. I wore a summer dress that let the warm breeze play on my arms and legs. The tall, gnarled trees smelled moist and lush, and the park, with its formal concrete walks and benches below a canopy of green, reminded me of the parks in the historic district of Savannah, Georgia, one of my favorite places. All that was missing were whispers of Spanish moss draping from the tree branches.

I forgot, for a few sweet minutes, my usual worries: about being 40 and childless; about being completely dependent on a job that I like a lot but has social-life depriving hours. I forgot about the people whom I had loved and lost, and how I wronged some people who had loved me.

In the park, at that moment, I had hope for myself and for humanity, for the present and the future. If someone had asked me for money right then, I would have gladly parted with a dollar.

Giddy and bright-eyed, I got on the bus and sat in one of the forward-facing seats. After we traveled a few blocks, something brushed against my ankle, giving me a start.

"Excuse me," someone said.

I turned around. There sat a woman, a husky blonde of about 50, in a flowered blouse and beige slacks that looked like they came from Sears. She looked like the type of woman who had given up and let her looks go, who had left behind her hopes of romantic love the day she crossed over into women's plus sizes. Indeed, she wore no wedding ring.

I smiled at her. "I thought a little dog brushed my leg." I said. "Made me jump."

"A dog?" she said. Her voice rose. "That wasn't a dog, that was my purse." Her eyes were small and beady beneath a pair of plastic-framed, utilitarian glasses. 

She spoke as if she were spitting the words at me. "Why would I bring a dog on the bus?" she said. "Who would think something so crazy and stupid?"

"Excuse me for fucking living," I said. I could barely get the words out, and I'm not sure if she even heard me. I turned away from her and faced forward in my seat. My breath became shallow and my throat tightened. Good old fight or flight.

Then the tears came, and I knew I was a goner. Once I start crying, it's very hard for me to stop. Crying when angry runs in my family: My mother is a chronic case, and my brother used to be until he hit his teen years. Hair-trigger criers completely undermine any semblance of toughness or dominance or nonchalance they are trying to put forth. It should be considered a disability.

Teardrops splashed on my dress, leaving dark, wet circles, but I kept silent. I didn't want anyone to know I was crying, and I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me, especially HER. Irresponsibly, she had allowed her meanness to roam off-leash, and it bit me in the nuts. Fuck it, I thought. I give up.

Heading north, we passed the darkened storefronts and dimly lit bars along Southeast MLK. If anyone had stepped on or off the bus I didn't notice—I was that upset. But, by the time we crossed Burnside into Northeast, I had managed to calm down somewhat.

We reached my stop. As I was about to stand up, the woman tapped me on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry I was mean to you earlier," she said. "That was inappropriate."

That was all she said. No "I'm having a bad day." No "my dog just died." No explanation. No excuse.

"It's OK," I said, avoiding her eyes as I made for the door.

After I stepped off the bus, I began to cry.