Beasts on the Bus

Rode the bus to work today. Nothing unusual about that. I ride the bus every day. At least once a week I have some sort of adventure on the bus. I suspect I'm not alone . . . there are always other people on the bus with me when these "adventures" happen, and yet somehow the stuff actually only happens TO me. For instance, yesterday, on my way home a "full figured gal" in a rather mangy fur coat sat next to me. The coat (or the woman, I'm not really sure) smelled. Bad. I felt a little like Daddy Warbucks in Annie -- my fellow 80s girls will remember this -- when Annie and Sandy are first at his mansion and he arrives, booming at his assistant, "Why do I smell a wet dog?!" Only it wasn't quite a wet dog. It was more like a wet dog, rolled in tobacco, bathed in mothballs, spritzed with a cologne of National Zoo Elephant House.

Of course, Mothball Annie sits down next to me, and by next to me, I mean 43 percent on my seat and 100 percent on her seat. That's 143 percent of seat space to my 57 percent. Fine. Not only did the coat have a distinct aroma, but it also appeared as if it had begun to molt. It had bald spots on the arms, tufts of darker fur sticking out in places, and was generally misshapen. And it was full length. In short, it looked like a Snuggie made out of a German Shepherd. It was not good. And it was touching me.

Sure, this is public transportation, and that implies a certain sort of peril to include, but not limited to: looney riders, screaming babies, oblivious yuppies with ipods, excrement from a variety of sources, and the usual challenges of driving on D.C.'s streets. But this was the first time I had to share a bus with roadkill rather than bumping along on top of it. Fortunately, my stop came up quickly and I was able to escape virtually unscathed. As far as I can tell , I don't have fleas.