The Terror Tram

I recall a story from when I was younger. I tell it with a certain amount of reluctance, but the morale is definitely there. So, if you’re one of those people who likes to bother random people with stories about the miserable state of their lives, then this one is for you. Read it, or be forever oblivious to the level of social awkwardness you generate on a daily basis.

***

I remember I was taking a streetcar to somewhere important. I cannot recall what it was that I was doing, or where I was going, but I am certain it was something completely awesome. Like ninja school. In fact, I think it was ninja school.

“I serve no master! (‘cept mom)“

It was business as usual for me. I was staring out of the window and avoiding eye-contact with my co-passengers, as one should. The general rule with public transportation is to never make eye contact with anyone. But on that fateful day, I strayed from that crucial rule – and paid heavily for the consequences. Just as my eyes veered to the passenger compartment, they locked on to someone standing in front of me for just a split second. Unfortunately, that split second was enough to trigger an avalanche of the conversational equivalent of explosive diarrhea.

I must admit that the man’s engagement was not entirely unprovoked. He must’ve seen my frowning expression and figured, as people often do, that I too wanted to share my problems, unaware of the fact that I had no such intentions (it’s just my normal face, assholes). His face however, resembled that of a starving cat who’s just locked on to a legless mouse. Also, his face looked like ass. This comment will make sense later. Henceforth I shall be referring to the man as “Assface”.

In the conversation that follows, I decided to transcribe both my scarce replies to the man, as well as what was going through my mind at the same time.

Assface: “What are you thinking about?”

Me: “Nothing.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I thought and quickly averted my eyes.

Assface: “Girls, huh? That’s how it is with them.”

Me: “Heh, yeah, whaddya gonna do…”

“Dear god no! Disengage! DISENGAGE!”

Assface: “Yeah, you know… my wife just left me.”

Me: “Well, I am sorry.”

“What are you doing still talking to him – I said disengage!”

Assface: “She just took off (he said this looking less like someone who just got dumped, and more like someone who just got railed). I gave her everything, you know. The coat, a car…”

Me: “Mmhm…”

“Why me!?”

Assface: “…but you know, such is life. You can never figure it out.”

Me: “Ah yes… life, you know…”

“OK, calm down – just don’t give him anything…”

Assface: “Same for you, right? Got girl-troubles?”

Me: “Uh… win some, lose some, you know…”

“FFUUUU…!”

Assface: “Yeah, don’t worry, that’s just how it is.”

Me: “Mmm…”

“What the… do I look worried? What the hell is my face doing! STOP IT, FACE!”

As the man rambled on about something equally as unimportant as the previous story, my central nervous system finally came to my aid and promptly shut down all my external cognitive senses. From there on I was in a lucid dream-state, thinking about that girl from my ninja school.

“I wouldn’t mind shuri-ng her kens.”

Apparently the cognitive reboot helped, because as I moved out of my fantasies back into the hard reality of streetcar-conversations, I noticed that the man had stopped talking. He must’ve realized, seeing my thousand-yard stare, that I had passed from this world into a place where his problems didn’t exist (a place he himself will never visit).

Assface finished, his voice betraying a mild dismay at my unresponsiveness: “But yeah… what do you know, you’re still young.”

Yes, Mr. Assface, that was precisely it. I was just too young to fully realize the extent to which you had cocked up your life and too young to appreciate the novelty of public transport mental breakdowns. It was me – not the mind-numbing monotony of your voice, the utter insignificance of your inane stories, your dead, soulless eyes or your complete failure to pick up your testicles and face the long and lonely years spent living inside an empty box at an unverifiable address that are sure to follow.

Since that day, I have developed effective countermeasures against potential bus-talkers. These days, when I find myself engaged, I quickly express my disinterest. You just can’t give these people hope. Or, when I’m in the mood, I switch from “denial of interest” to “brutal sarcasm”, and make fun of the person until they start making fun of themselves. It’s like teaching a robot to destroy himself without human assistance or interference.

Like the Dalemmings, for example.