Succumbing to Assholery: How Commuting Stole My Soul

“Oh, LUCY!”

A play in one act

7:55 a.m., the first cold morning of the New Year. I stand on the back steps of the LUCY bus, staring blankly out the windows of the back doors, sleeping with my eyes open, and wishing I was already at my desk with a nice hot cuppa. Every seat is full. The bus engine hums loudly and the heater hisses under the strain from the cold. People mutter “watch it” and “sorry” as they jostle each other trying to pack in tighter. A woman wearing ski gear even though we are in the middle of a major non-mountainous American city at the start of a business day, is standing just ahead of me. The bus begins to leave the stop.

Ski woman, to me, flatly: “They could fit three or four more people on here.”

She gestures to the sidewalk as we pull away, at one or two people who were not able to squeeze on the bus. One of them is Stacy, with whom I work.

Me, frowning: “Huh?” (realizing the woman is speaking to me) “It’s plenty crowded for me.”

Ski woman, flatly: “It was a joke.”

Me, under my breath: “Not a funny one.”

Ski woman: “You know, because, the bus is crowded, and…” (She continues to drone on explaining her “joke,” but I do not continue to interpret the sounds coming from her mouth.)

Me: “I’m sorry…um…stop talking to me. I’m not…listening to you.”

THE END