Rapid Friday
Erin Douglass
Last Friday evening, I ditched my pokey, local route in favor of the Rapid, one of L.A.'s bright-red express lines. My reasons were pure enough: I had to be in Westwood for a play by 8. Dinner by 6.
I boarded at 5:20. Much to my surprise, there were available seats. I motioned to an empty spot by the window and the dark-haired woman hemming it in swiveled her knees for me to pass. I thanked her, got comfortable and promptly zoned out.
Next thing I knew, we were at Wilshire and Western and a stream of riders was pouring on.
As I took in the crowd, one defiant-looking young person caught my eye. I say "person," because I couldn't tell whether it was a guy or a girl. With a slicked-back ponytail, baggy T-shirt and baggier jeans, it could have been anyone. Not wanting to get caught doing the Boob Check, I turned to the window.
The bus bounced west. Suddenly, there was a loud beep, followed by a distorted voice. Terrific, I thought, another walkie-talkie phone. These things aren't illegal yet? I scanned the crowd. Through elbows and between backpacks, I spotted the perpetrator near the front: a chubby teenager with flat-ironed hair and a smiling, wide-open face.
Flanked by two girlfriends, she held her phone away from her mouth and proceeded to yell into it.
"Where are you??"
Then she rolled her eyes and looked at her friends.
I couldn't hear their responses, but I sure could hear hers. Apparently the trio was heading to Santa Monica for a night of shopping and shouting into their phones.
The bus lurched to a stop. Over the din of exiting passengers and a now roaring air conditioner, I heard someone yell, "Excuse me! Excuse me, please!" A man appeared at the top of the steps. He had a shaved-head and dark sunglasses, and he carried a cane.
Passengers near the front, realizing that the man was blind, scooted sideways to make room on the bench. He thunked onto the seat, tucked his cane between his knees and said, "Thank you. Thank you very much."
The walkie-talkie phone, which had been strangely silent, beeped again. The owner made a face at her friends and said into her hand, "What?"
From the front bench, the blind man chirped, "Hello?" Then he laughed.
That's one way to deal with the cursed device, I thought. Join in.
Someone jostled my shoulder. I glanced over to see a young woman with a plunging neckline and ample chest sitting next to me. Hovering over her, wearing a wide, happy grin, was the gender-vague person with the ponytail.
"Baby, when we gettin' off?"
It's a guy, I noted.
The woman purred something I couldn't hear. Her friend leaned closer. Next thing I knew, they were lip-locked.
I don't know how you can sit on the bus and get your arms around another person quite the way they did — especially with one party standing and the other sitting. But embrace they did, with only slight variations as passengers boarded and exited behind them.
Suddenly, the shrill sounds of a phone "ringing" filled the bus. The noise was tinny and full of static, but still plenty familiar: "Like a Virgin" by Madonna.
Passengers shifted in their seats. Some adjusted headphones and looked annoyed. After a few seconds, the three girls in front, grinning, burst into song.
"Touched for the very first time! Like a ver…er…er…igin! When your heart beats…"
The blind man joined in. "…next to mine!"
I couldn't help it: I started cracking up.
The driver, whipping around in his seat, yelled, "Turn it off!"
The song stopped.
The girls giggled.
The couple canoodled.
And out of nowhere the blind man announced, "It's exactly six o'clock!"