Civilization is rounding the drain. Here is my experience from last week.

The hem of my pants fell so I was forced to staple the hem to the lining of my pants. So I am wearing a custom made jacket and pants but I am really put together by spit, scotch tape and now staples. As goes the economy, there go I.

Ooh, some nice, loud gum cracking and it is only 79th Street.

If only you knew the conversations on this bus. You’d be surprised how many kinds of macaroni and cheese a person can have in her pantry. The kind obviously matters. Apparently, one could be in the mood for let’s say Swanson’s but not Chef Boyardee. The third option was to go to the store, not for something entirely different but for a different kind of mac’n’cheese. I didn’t hear the outcome of this woman’s conversation with “Johnny” but I’ll try to remember to watch local news to find out what happened.

A young man on the bus is presenting paranoid obsessive behavior. No ability to modulate his voice. Stops in mid-sentence. Keeps talking about all of the records he is keeping about his boss’s refusal to acknowledge overtime and saying that his boss would rather kill him than pay him for five hours of overtime work. He is well-kempt and his keeps mentioning that his mom wants him to come home and live with her, so he is not alone (and he also has his not-so-sane friend who is listening to him). It is too sad for words.
Even I can’t make snide remarks. There but for the grace of G-d go I.

There is a (former) banker-type committing the inexcusable crime of cell-yell which crime is only further aggravated by the subject matter: his brother’s court date (and I don’t mean for a squash game).

There is what appears at first impression to be a couple (because they are conversing and have near identical shades of tan). But as I am rocked to and fro by the potholes, I hear the following snippet: “where did you get YOUR tan” asked he. “Central Park and a salon near me” said she. “Ahhhh” said he as our erstwhile Romeo moved slightly away to avoid further conversation.

The bus clears out somewhat at 86th Street and reveals a man with the most abominable toupe that hangs down to the tip of his oversized sun glasses. Imagine Peter Sellers (of the Pink Panther movies) in a schtick about the hapless undercover spy or a character in those early 1970s movies about the swinging singles apartment buildings.

Two men get on the bus through the back door at 96th Street. One fits the stereotype of a fare cheat; the other seems solidly middle class. If I were truly my mother’s daughter, I would sit next to each of them in turn and explain the importance of paying one’s fare.

I then came to a frightening conclusion — the mildewy smell that is mixed with pungent body odor (which has had time to ferment no doubt) is in the fabric of my seat and back rest, does NOT belong to the ever so grim man next to me. Just like the Seinfeld episode, the smell will follow me even after I disrobe. I may have to have my body dry-cleaned. It is almost sport to see how many times you can travel on a bus before you get tagged with someone else’s gross body odor. The thrill of the challenge and the agony of defeat.
Time to get off the bus.