Mr. Bobblehead

By Bob

On a hot Saturday night, the midnight run of the No. 12 was crowded -- standing room only and the aisle was filled. The rear of the bus was loud with talk, as usual, while the riders near the front were mostly into their cells and iPods. But the real show took place in the middle rows.

Sitting next to the window in the last row before the back door was a fortysomething guy who obviously had been into his cups all night long. As the bus moved, he moved. He was prisoner to the forces of acceleration and deceleration. When the bus would pull away from a stop, the drunken fellow would fall all the way back in his seat, with his head tossed back as far as it could go. And when the bus would brake for a stop, he would mimic its slowing, his body gradually edging forward until his head made contact with the back of the seat in front of him.

Depending of the severity of the driver's braking, the drunk's head would gently tap the seat's back, or hit with a loud thud -- amusing and alarming the passengers around him. And on this night, the bus came to a halt at a nearly every stop. Back and forth, Mr. Bobblehead would rock, his eyes closed, his breathing loud and labored. The fumes emanating from his direction smelled like Mad Dog or Two-Buck Chuck. But he was blissful in his stupor, with a kind of grin on his sozzled face.

After this entertainment had gone on for a dozen stops, the bus started to empty. The woman sitting next to him, unable to stifle her laughter, moved to a vacated spot. As did the smirking guy who had been standing behind Mr. Bobblehead. As the guy found a seat, though, he also found compassion. The guy said to the woman: "Maybe we should try to wake him before he hurts himself."

She took matters into her own hands, ignoring the maxim of letting sleeping drunks lie. She returned to her old seat and nudged Mr. Bobblehead. No response. She then clasped his nearest shoulder and shook him. He slowly opened his eyes into a squint. He mumbled something. She asked, "Sir, are you OK?" He mumbled something more, equally unintelligible, and then leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. She backed off and moved away again.

The No. 12 continued on its way, and soon Mr. Bobblehead resumed his routine. And no matter how hard he hit his head on the seat's back, he never opened his eyes again or said anything.

Both the woman and the guy who had taken an interest in Mr. Bobblehead's safety left the bus at various stops. But Mr. Bobblehead maintained his antics. The bus would pull away from a stop and his head would fall back; the bus would slow for a stop and his head would lurch forward and strike the back of the forward seat.

Finally, the bus headed down the long hill on Barbur that leads to Tigard. The force of gravity overcame Mr. Bobblehead. His head fell forward and hit the seat back. He remained in that position, his forehead resting on the back of the seat, even as the bus pulled away from a stop. He was in repose. He started to snore loudly.

The No. 12's journey continued, but Mr. Bobblehead had reached his destination.