Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 7

Of course, hate public transportation.

Once quoted as saying, "The thing about ma.s.s transportation is that it transports the ma.s.ses."

Famous last words?

Take Blue Line from Chicago stop to change trains at State/Lake.

Stare helplessly at signs because can't figure out if should transfer to Brown or Purple Line. And why no Pink Line?

Pink is lovely color.7 Directions totally unclear.

Have small fit.

Decide on Purple Line. Purple is less icky color than Brown.8 Wait ten minutes, no train.

Realize am on wrong side of platform, so cross bridge to get to other side.

Wait ten more minutes.

Realize Orange Line goes exact same way.

Aha! Am clever! Will take quickie shortcut Orange Line and not wait with all Purple Line chumps.

Board Orange Line.

Ride, ride, ride.

Watch as library flies past window.

Uh-oh.

Realize got on express train.

Get off at Roosevelt and double back so can catch Purple Line at Adams/Wabash.

See big, pretty, fluffy dog and try to pet.

Yelled at by security guards.

"Ma'am, don't touch the dog. He's working."

Wait for ten more minutes for Orange Line headed back to Loop.

Freeze because wearing lightweight coat-thought library would be hot.

Catch train back to Adams/Wabash.

Get off and wait for right Orange Line train.

Notice am standing across from Art Inst.i.tute.

Feel guilty for never having visited inst.i.tute.

Except once to shop in gift shop.

Beat self up about own vapidity and lack of fine-art knowledge.

Freeze.

Get on what a.s.sume is right Orange Line train, as is across tracks.

Ride, ride, ride.

Watch as library flies past window.

Got on express train again.

What the f.u.c.k?

Cry a little.

Exit train, where am openly mocked by security guards and smug, fluffy, busy dog.

Wait for train again.

Freeze.

Stay on Orange Line and pray for it to wind up at Harold Was.h.i.+ngton Library.

Yay! Am here!

Exit train.

Almost die when giant icicle hurtles to earth mere six inches from head.

Enter library. Which smells like feet.

Conduct exhaustive search.

Seek help from surly library employees, who try to give me Candace Bushnell's 4 Blondes.9 Finally find book.

Wait in line for fourteen minutes. Vow to hurt Sykes if isn't Bridget Jonesl evel good.

Pay $21.90 in overdue fines because online renewal system apparently doesn't work.

Head back to train entrance.

Dodge yet another giant ice projectile.

Decide "screw it" and hail taxi. Spend another $9 to get home. Husband spots self exiting taxi and mocks mercilessly.

Total cost of the library excursion?

$40.90,10 two hours, and a portion of my sanity.

So taking the train to my temp job is pretty much out of the question. I'd love to drive but spending $24 on parking downtown is three times more wrong than taking a cab, so the bus it is.

I'm at the stop waiting to go to said temp a.s.signment when the number 56 arrives exactly when it's supposed to be here. Not only does the bus get here on time and without incident, I actually find an open seat. Huzzah! The heavens are s.h.i.+ning down upon me! For today I shall be the one who thrusts my head into someone else's crotch accidentally when the driver brakes hard for no reason! It will be me who curls my lip in disgust when the embarra.s.sed straphanger makes a joke about tucking dollar bills! I claim this twelve-inch-wide carpeted-plastic throne in the name of Jen!

Delighting in the luxury, I open my canvas tote and root around in it, digging past my lunch, purse, extra panty hose, hand lotion, four shades of pink-brown lipstick, and umbrella until I find my book. I feel the familiar glossy cover and I whip out Slander by Ann Coulter.

I know, I know...few authors incite the kind of pa.s.sion11 she does, but I enjoy her writing even though her politics can be too hard-core for...well...anyone. (When I gave my friends Angie, Jen, Carol, and Wendy a tour of my apartment, they made one collective gasp when they saw the book on Fletch's nightstand. To their credit, they had lunch with me anyway.) But with hair that good I figure Ann's got to be doing something right.12 Anyway, as I am all about the fair and balanced, I plan to pick up Al Franken's newest soon, because I honestly believe the truth is somewhere in the middle of all the polarizing viewpoints.

I read contentedly for about five minutes until I sense someone's eyes on me. I glance up to meet the gaze of another pa.s.senger. A small, wiry woman sits across from me in some sort of yoga pose that I'm sure has a lyrical name but I only know as "Indian-style." The cut of her short, dark hair shows off jug ears and pale skin. Her natural-hewn brown sweater is bristly and appears to be in need of a shave. Big, googly sungla.s.ses complete her ensemble, and her visage is disturbingly simian. This bothers me because it means even chimpanzees are more capable of riding the bus than I am.

I notice her long, skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves and the overall effect is that of a monkey in a straitjacket. I continue to read and snicker to myself. Oh, Ann, you're just evil sometimes. With your mean streak, I don't see why we aren't already best friends. We should have a slumber party-we could crank call Hillary Clinton and send a bunch of pizzas to Dianne Feinstein! Then we could TP Ted Kennedy's house and egg John Kerry's car before braiding each other's hair while we watch America's Next Top Model. I smile and nod at Ann's acerbic commentary.

The Monkey Woman clears her throat.

I continue to read and punctuate the silence of the bus with an occasional guffaw. Me-ow, Miss Thing! I am so sitting next to you if I'm ever invited to a big Republican fund-raiser.

The Monkey Woman clears her throat again, louder this time.

This? Right here? Is another reason I loathe the bus. I hate having to speak to perfect strangers in such close confines. I mean, no one on the bus ever wants to discuss interesting stuff, like the best way to get your pit bull to stop peeing on the rug in the hallway, or my hair. Either they're compelled to sell you something you don't want or to chat about your one-way ticket to h.e.l.l because even though you've been baptized, you're still doomed because you weren't baptized in the Holy Name of the Evangelical Church of the Crazy Bus Zealots.

I look up and give her a quick half smile, which I hope communicates, "I'm grinning because I'd like to look friendly so you don't grab a knife with the prehensile tail I'm sure is hidden under your s.h.a.ggy s.h.i.+rt and stab me in the neck. But if neck-stabbing is not your intention, my countenance isn't so welcoming it leads you to believe I want to buy your fund-raiser M&Ms or gab about your intense personal relations.h.i.+p with your lord Xenu, alien ruler of the Galactic Confederacy.13 But, um, hey, thanks for thinking about me and how 'bout I just return to my book now?"

No dice. Monkey Woman doesn't break eye contact. When she removes her sungla.s.ses I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow. She gestures toward the tome in my hand, declaring, "She's a fascist."

I focus on my book, replying only, "Mmmm." I don't think Ann's a fascist as much as she's someone who uses a lot of hyperbole to make a point. Yes, she's at the far end of the Michael MooreJoe LiebermanPat Buchanan political-leaning continuum, but I bet a lot of the incendiary stuff she writes is just to sell books. I'm sure when we have our slumber party she'll be totally cool. Gosh, I hope she brings Mystery Date with her! We'll set up our matching Snoopy sleeping bags by the fireplace and talk about fun stuff like potential boyfriends,14 makeup, reality TV, whether or not our uptight old moms will ever let us shave our legs, and the ramifications of a flat tax. Then we'll stuff ourselves silly with Cheetos and RingDings, freeze each other's bras, and dance to my Jackson Five records until my daddy comes downstairs to tell us to stop squealing like Democrats and go to bed already.

"Everything she says is a lie."

I'm not looking at you, I'm not looking at you, I'm not looking at you. "Uh-huh," I grunt, not lifting my gaze to meet hers.

"All she does is spread filthy lies and hate."

Now I know for a fact this isn't entirely true. It would be physically impossible for her to only spread lies and hate. Occasionally she's got to hit the salon to get her roots done, and at least once a week she's interviewed on Fox News because someone hurled a pie at her while she was giving a speech.15 However, I don't feel like arguing right now so I say, "Mmph."

Monkey Woman grows agitated and begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers that are perfect for picking nits out of those hard-to-reach places. "She lies! It's all lies! Lies and hate! Why are you reading stupid lies?"

This. Is. Getting. Old. Normally I'm all about a rousing political discussion, but only with people who I'm entirely sure won't fling poo at me. So, I simply shrug disinterestedly.

Wrong move.

Monkey Woman begins to squawk, shriek, and gesture wildly. "When you read stupid lies, you turn into a stupid liar! A dumb, unintelligent liar with no brain cells!! You are stupid, stupid, stupid." With bated breath, she leans forward on her haunches and waits for my reply.

One nice thing about being on a bus with a bunch of city dwellers is her shouting attracts the attention of no one. We're so jaded that if we ran across a severed arm on the floor of this bus, we'd all simply step over it and debark. I look around and all I see are Yuppies enraptured by the Red Eye commuter newspaper or listening to music on tiny headphones. No one's even batted an eye.

Note to self: Get iPod, like, immediately.

"You don't say." I close the book, carefully marking my place with my bus pa.s.s. There's nothing I can do to convince her otherwise and the only way to win this bizarre little game is not to play.

Frustrated that I didn't pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away from me, and...crisis averted.

I hate to admit the Monkey Woman rattled me, but it's true. I'm bothered greatly when people question my intelligence. I pride myself on my cognitive skills, yet when I fail at simple tasks like taking public transportation, I often wonder if my pride's based more on false bravado than actual merit.

Come to think of it, I do a lot of dumb stuff, like this morning when I tried to put on my pants without unzipping them first and Fletch had to get me unstuck. And then there's the second-degree burns on my right hand from last week when I forgot that pan in the oven equals hot. Or like when I fake threw the ball to the dog, only I accidentally let it go and the d.a.m.n thing flew straight into the window, which then smashed into a zillion tiny shards?16 I sit on my plastic throne and stew. Maybe I'm not as clever as I like to tell myself? What if she's right that I'm far dumber for having read Ann Coulter? I inspect my own charred paw and ruminate.

As my stop approaches, I stand and get ready to exit. Just as the brakes bring our mobile sardine can to a halt, I notice something different from my new vantage point. It's but a tiny detail, yet it gives me a s.h.i.+ny new perspective on my rightful place in the universe. I lean in toward Monkey Woman.

"Pardon me," I say.

Angry, dark eyes cut in my direction. "What?" she hisses.

Clutching my book to my breast so it looks like Ann's standing next to me as my "second," I whisper, "Your sweater's on inside out."

Then I gather my things and exit as Monkey Woman throws a banana at me.

Okay, the banana part's not true, but how awesome would it have been if she had?

Anyway, it probably doesn't matter; tomorrow I shall be reading Ann Coulter in a cab.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: happy belated 4th of july In response to Carol's query of our respective holiday weekends...

Setting: The driveway of my parents' house. My sister-in-law and niece are in one car and I am in another.

Me: Where am I meeting you guys for lunch?

Mom: Well, I was thinking-why don't we go to that little Italian place by the mall?

(a beat) (another beat while I process what my mother has just said) (because, really, she can't possibly...) Me: Do...do...do you mean the Olive Garden?

And...that pretty much sums up the past three days at my parents' house.

Please tell me your holidays were better than this.

Lie if you must.