The Great Throw-Down.

My lesbian cohort-in-crime and fellow bus-rider, D and I would be remiss to complain simply about the fellow passengers on our bus. After all, there is a slim possibility that said passengers are finding US steadfastly annoying enough to post Internet blogs about. (I say "slim" because, honestly, aside from the community college winners!!!1 who take up air-space on their way to Kirkwood every morning to become astronaut farmers and Psychology majors working in call centers - you know what, I can say that because I've lived it - I question the literacy abilities of the lot of them.)

In any case, the holiday weekend has given us time for reflection, which has allowed the following delicious nugget of bus-riding badness to spring to mind anew. Rewind to roughly a week ago. It was a fairly typical last leg of our mutual trip home on the "6" - the air was dank and smelly, the bus itself hotter and stinkier than outside, the passengers even moreso. D and I watched Orange Shirt Girl and Drooling Cyndi Lauper Lady through the window of a neighboring bus, OSG seemingly enamored with what appeared to be a walkie-talkie. Okaaay.

The bus driver boards. He is, essentially, a human representation of Cedar Rapids, post-flooding: worn out; making it, but only just; like he'd maybe done just a bit too much acid in the '70s. Tiredly, he turns the key; we all wait with bated breath for the reassuring whir of the air conditioner, but it does not come. We proceed, D fiddling with the Ahsoka toy she's just rescued from its former prison, wedged between two seats. The movement isn't comforting, or comfortable, but it signifies that we're on our way Home, and so we do our best to relax into it.

The bus turns to pull out of the parking lot, and then stops. Nobody thinks anything of it because it's rush hour, and then the screaming starts. We don't catch all of it, but suddenly Mr. Panic at the Disco is half-lunging out the tiny side window availed to him, arguing heatedly with a large black woman in a city-issued van with the transit station logo imprinted on the side. Stunned, the bus' other 5-6 patrons listen as the verbal gang-rape continues, punctuated with racial slurs and finalized with a loud, "FUCK YOU" from the bus driver.

Then the bus firmly rounds a corner, and we wait for the driver to decide that, yes, yes, today is going to be the day he ends it all, having it out with a co-worker before pitching himself - and all of us - off a bridge. D clutches at the lump of Ahsoka figure in her backpack, and we pray to the higher power that is Star Wars that we will make it home in two, non-charbroiled pieces. By the Holiness vested in George Lucas, our pleas are answered.

Though most of the CR bus drivers do not tend quite so closely to the homicidal, they aren't that great, either. However, Busrider D and I must extend a hand of gratitude to one particular driver, whose tireless dedication to the "7" route - and to bringing ponytails on men back - is worth an accolade or two. We don't know his name, but we know his face, and he ours, always referring to me as D's "lady friend". When the weather is bad, and through Hell and high traffic, he is always there with his pleasant, hippie demeanor and strangely attractive polyester blue shorts. For future reference in this blog, he shall be known as Qui-Gon the Bus Driver, or "Quiggy". And he shall be praised.

NUMBER OF TIMES DISCUSSIONS ABOUT PRESIDENT CARTER HAVE BEEN OVERHEARD ON THE "7" BUS IN THE MORNING: 2.