The Intelligence Estimate

Riding the bus is a good way to meet a lot of people. Not people you want to know, mind you, just a LOT of people. I've been exposed to a fight between a welfare mom and two people going back to their rooms in a half way house as well as the most hilarious drug deal to ever take place outside of a Cheech and Chong movie.

"If you want more call me this weekend on my cell phone, but only after five on Friday. I have free weekends so I don't answer before five on Fridays and after 9 on Sundays. So don't call me unless it's between those two times. Ok? Do you understand me? I'll only answer on the weekends. Got it? I don't think you do. What times can you call me?"

"Huh?"

But the most fun I ever had in public transportation started out with a slow motion altercation between a drunk Asian man and a small black man.

I was waiting for the 6 p.m. bus. Because I live in Des Moines where the streets are rolled up at 10 p.m., the buses start coming once an hour at 6. So when the buses meet downtown at 6 for their final stop before heading into the hinterlands, they wait longer than usual.

This Asian man, who, for the sake of this story we'll call Bill, is standing to my left. He's stumbling around and mumbling something to himself. I don't pay any attention to it. My run in with Cheech and Chong taught me that if I waste time attending to every rediculous person public transportation has to offer that my nervous system would shut down in fright.

Bill begins stumbling my way but I stare straight ahead and make no eye contact. Even when the alcohol vapor rolls off of him and hits me in the face nearly burning off my eyebrows, I make no noise. He walks past me to the black man, who we'll call Neil. After awhile I start to hear raised voices so I begin paying attention. Bill is now within inches of Neil, right in his face, and he just keeps repeating this phrase over and over again: "I ain't afraid of you." Well, after enough prodding Neil politely offers to hand Bill's ass to him and Bill turned around and walked away saying, "I don't wanna fight you, I don't wanna fight you."

Bill walks right past me, back to his "thinking corner" where he stands for awhile, pacing nervously. He then gathers his courage, walks back up to Neil, looks him right in the eye and says, "I ain't afaid of you."

It's like Bill's brain had time to reset itself on his walk past me. His head was like an Etcha-Sketch that had been shaken clean and Neil was once again getting ready to draw bloody murder all over it for him. But then Bill's well-pickled sense of self preservation kicks in and he let's loose his rallying cry, "I don't wanna fight you, I don't wanna fight you." And he shuffles back past me again.

This same mobius strip of stupidity passes by me three or four more times before the bus finally shows up to take me to smarter lands. I usually like to sit in the back of the bus. This is a technique I picked up on very early on. If you sit in the back you can keep an eye on all the riff raff. However, on this day the back of the bus was full so I took one half way back a few seats ahead of the back door. I figured I could just dive into my book and stay out of history's way on my 15 minute ride back home. I was wrong.

No sooner had I opened by book than two guys stumble onto the bus and sit directly behind me. I knew they were trouble. I could smell it on them. Literally. If it were physically possible to smoke Milwaukee's Finest, the resulting ashes mixed with a hint of skunk's spray would smell like these two guys.

Now Beavis and Butthead sit down behind me and start discussing the pressing issues of the day.

"We got beer at home?"

"Yeah, and we got pizza too. Have we got enough beer?"

"I don't know, we better get more. Have we got enough pizza?"

"Probably not, we should get some more. Have we got any money?"

"There's always money for beer...."

"And pizza...."

So I think it's safe to say that these two guys daily routine could be placed into three categories: beer time, pizza time and beer AND pizza time. Clearly bath time was not a priority. I guess carrying the stench of alcohol with them wherever they went was the next best thing to actually drinking in public. They had no trouble BEING drunk in public, just actually drinking in public apparently was the hang up. I could tell that the "No beverages" sign in the front of the bus was the only thing standing between them and total enjoyment of the public transportation experience. Damned MTA Nazis!

"Beer, beer, beer. Pizza, pizza, pizza. Beer, pizza, beer, pizza. Pizza, pizza, Beer beer."

Walking home was starting to cross my mind when I noticed the bus driver yelling something out the door.

"What?" he yelled.

An unintelligible reply came from beyond the door.

"What?" he replied again, more aggitated this time.

The slurred response came back, "I'm sorry, I'm a little bit drunk. Is this the bus that takes me to..." and then I heard him mention two streets that I'm reasonably certain only exist in his head.

It was Bill, and "A little bit drunk" is a "little bit" of an understatement.

Beavis and Butthead saw Bill. And with an air of disdain and disgust usually reserved for open sewers Beavis point to Bill, "Fucking drunk."

So you see, there's a heirarchy to everything. Sure Beavis and Butthead were falling down drunk, but they weren't Bill. At least they were on the bus!