So, I might as well bust out the work-related blog posts I’ve been hoarding in my head these last few months.
In case you didn’t know, I frequently take the Shame Train to work, typically three to four times a week. I drive to the BART station, take that to the end of the line, where my employer has a pair of shuttle buses that take us the rest of the way. The shuttles, until recently, were driven by two old men, named Gene and John.
No, one was named Gene, and one named John. There names were not “Gene and John.”
Anyways, one day, I was sitting on John’s shuttle waiting to pull out of the station, and Gene came over, stepped up into the shuttle to look around.
Gene is the typical chess nerd looking guy. Somewhat messy mop of hair, large plastic-framed glasses, old windbreaker, kinda buck-toothed, with a large goofy smile.
John is the typical jock, with his thinning hair slicked back, sunglasses, wireless cell phone thing on his ear, attitude, and attention for the ladies.
When Gene climbed up into the bus and looked around, he did it with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare, and John looked at him like a pile of dirt just fell into his bus. John asked him why he was on the bus, Gene explained he was just looking around, and John told him to get off so we could leave.
It was interesting to see the two stereotypes still at play, 50 or 60 years after high school.
On an unrelated note, there’s a short, really fat Asian lady who rides the bus, too. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, but she’s a good three feet wide. Every morning, she has a large Starbucks cup in her hand, and an Amazon Kindle in the other hand, and a small backpack perched up on the backside of her mass.
She is so out of shape and unable to handle her weight that she has to take the steps into the shuttle and around the train station one at a time – stepping up, bringing her other foot up, taking a breath, then repeating on the next step.
Each row has two seats on each side, and she has to find a row with no one else sitting. She plops down into the aisle seat, legs splayed, one arm curved up holding her Starbucks cup between her breasts, resting on her stomach. The other arm rests further out on her stomach, holding her Kindle as she reads whatever book or newspaper she’s downloaded that morning.
The other afternoon, when I jumped up into the afternoon bus for the ride back to BART, she was sitting on the front row, looking very much like someone had lobbed a large blob of brown paper mache into a chair.
It must be very sad to be that fat. Even John doesn’t flirt with her.