Poker Face

I have been using public transit and carpools for the last five-plus years as a matter of convenience and pocketbook friendliness (transit subsidies as job benefits are always appreciated.) But as gasoline starts reaching the $4.50 level in many parts of this area, many more formerly car-bound people have been forced to brave the pitfalls that I've grown accustomed to all this time.

The temperature hovered in the high-90s when I boarded the bus today. I knew it would be crowded; the previous bus driver decided to break the timed transit protocol with the local BART train and sped away as we ran for the bus stop. This meant this next bus would be taking on our stranded behinds plus the typical next three train loads minimum.

A so-called "Spare The Air" day had also been declared for the area. This meant the final installment of free rides for many of the transit agencies here, and who can't resist the allure of a free ride these days? This added more people to the already crowded mix.

This bus ride would be a doozy, judging from the overalls-clad man sweating and smoking up a nice waft of swirling toxicity that might be rivaled by the nearby Chevron refinery on a good (or should that be bad) day.

Not that any of us "normal" clothes-clad types were fresh-smelling either. A huge dose of "Hai Karate" cologne may not be more preferable, but I figured it would down to the bottom of the ninth with a two-strike count before one or the other choice won out in the olfactory department.

I got on pretty quickly and started to nap. It wouldn't be that bad if I could get some alpha and maybe even a few theta waves going in my cerebral cortex.

And then it happened. *POKE*

I had figured out with my eyes closed that the seats had been re-adjusted to accommodate the final passengers for that trip, which included a mother and her two kids. Yes, it was one of those youngsters driving his finger right in the center of the back of my head. I guess I knew now what seats they had...

*POKE*

This one was more situated on the right shoulder, closest to the window. "Oh oh," I thought as I tried to refocus on my

*POKE POKE POKE POKE POKE POKE POKE POKE* The fusillade that was the finger came furiously now, slowly ascending from my shoulder up my trapezius to my fun, floppy earlobe.

"Sit back, stop bothering him!" I heard the mother admonish her child, but she seemed to be having trouble with her other youngster.

Sure enough, the rat-a-tat-tat of his digit came back in force, but this time it was enhanced by a primal pronoun pronouncement.

"YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU."

I tried to play it cool, unlike the bus' air conditioner, which had cut out as the bus pulled away. A little friendly response never hurt. "Yep, that's me."

Evidently, he wasn't convinced, and needed more concrete evidence. Each "YOU" corresponded a more firm *POKE* as he explored new territory such as my cheek and neck. More admonishments from the harried mother went unheeded, as my mind turned to, of all things, the cartoon character Johnny Bravo. My memory could be wrong, but I seemed to recall him in an episode trying to shake someone's hand, only to see that someone manhandle him overhead onto the ground front and back, like a demon-possessed pendulum, until he was battered senseless. It would be so easy to grab that hand and...

(Okay, there are laws against that, I do believe. And I would never do that kind of stuff. Maybe I'll just recheck that tonight, though, just to be sure.)

Ahh, but as things were building up to Bravo...suddenly, silence. Not a peep, or even a *POKE*. A minute or two, and I tensed up, suspicious that this was just preparation for a sneak attack. Alas, my suspicions were correct - a hand lurched over my shoulder.

This time, though, the voice sounded like a Tickle-Me-Elmo doll whose batteries were about to go Robert Conrad and get knocked off the shoulder to a merciful demise. "HWALUUH-ALA-HUUUULAHH-AAAALUUUUUUUUUH."

Yes, not a peep from him the rest of the trip, amazingly enough. However, that didn't stop his sister from testing her vocal range capabilities.

A shriek that acted like a bunker-busting bomb for the human eardrum pierced through the dull roar of the bus engine and other scattered conversations. Judging on the varying pitches emitted within one single shriek, this young gal just might have a future in learning a tonal language like Yoruba, Punjabi or Mandarin. Sadly though, tinnitus would be the order for the rest of this trip.

As I got up to deboard the bus, a passenger behind me declared, "Boy, am I glad that this is MY stop!" to much laughter. Good to see that the gathered throng could still find humor about this ride home; maybe free rides on the bus are a stronger elixir to cure minor pains than I figured.