Space Rules
Erin Douglass
I have some issues about space.
Not the vast unknowable heavens kind of space. This is space as in personal. Space as in sacred. Space as in violated.
The bus, bless its useful soul, is a rolling, lurching feedlot of violated space.
I'm sure not everyone feels this way. But it's clear that there are definitely unspoken rules that govern the hows, wheres and whens of space on the bus.
The most important of these is The Scatter Rule.
Also known as the It's Nothing Personal Rule, The Scatter Rule follows several basic principles. Board the bus, survey the scene and select a seat accordingly. If the bus is empty, go crazy: pick a favorite spot. If several faces stare back, choose a seat in a zone — such as the upper deck — and then skip rows, stagger seats and, most importantly, fill in only when necessary.
Sadly, some people don't know this rule.
Several weeks ago, for instance, an older woman scrambled on board somewhere in West Hollywood. Two passengers silently greeted her: moi, tucked away safely in a back left corner, and a quiet woman in lipstick and jeans sitting in the right front row, against the window.
As I saw it, our new arrivee had myriad seat options. Front, back, middle, aisle — the bus was her oyster. And yet what did she do? March right over to the woman in front and thud down beside her with all the grace of a moose.
I was appalled. The woman in jeans cringed, shifted uncomfortably and pressed herself closer to the window. She even managed a quick, meaningful glance over her shoulder, as if to say, "What? The bus filled up between La Cienega and Sweetzer?"
Oblivious, the crowding newcomer settled back for the ride.
Since then, this woman has become a regular. Every time she boards she heads for that front, right-row spot — evidence, perhaps, that she operates under another M.O., The That's My Seat Rule.
I've yet to witness what would happen if this seat were already occupied. How would the woman react? Would she ask the violator to move over one? Sit in his or her lap? Throw a fit? My inner scamp wants to find out by sitting there myself one of these mornings.
But that would violate The Scatter Rule.
Several days ago, I fell victim to another, in some ways subtler rule-breaker.
Eye-deep in my magazine, I hardly noticed as the woman approached. But after she sat down, pinning the loose end of my coat tight as shrink wrap beneath her wide, firm thigh, I was aware of nothing but her presence.
A presence that was spreading.
For the woman, already leaning back, arms crossed over prodigious breast, started to relax her legs into a modesty-defying, ever-expanding V. The right leg, unencumbered, jutted into the aisle. The left leg, however, had no such freedom. Crossing the silver line separating her seat from mine, it pressed full-bore into my side.
Breach! I almost shouted. Mayday! Mayday!
But I kept my quiet. Staring expressionlessly out the window, I edged left. This feeble gesture only served to give my neighbor's leg more room in which to creep. My heart sank as the limb, liquid-like, conformed to the space provided.
I was now pinned between the cold metal wall of the bus and a strange, warm thigh. The experience was uncomfortable, to say the least. Like an awkward teen on a first date, I was afraid to move for fear of bringing attention to the fact that we were touching. To do so would have meant a confrontation. Perhaps an explanation, followed by an apology.
I just wasn't up for it. Sighing, I sat there.
Ten minutes later — or was it days? — the usurper finally rose, unpinning my coat, freeing my legs and allowing my hips to realign. Watching her exit, I pulled my bag from the sticky floor and draped it conspicuously across the vacant seat.
I'd earned my right to a little space.