Part 1
It took Hector Samsa two near-death experiences, one murder, and a lifetime of hallucinations -- and things he wished were hallucinations -- for him to realize that sanity was just a psychological popularity contest. Somewhere, a group of very sane men in very sane suits sat around a table, drank coffee and chai, and made up a list of all the things sane people didn't do. The list is still in development.
But Hector was pretty sure none of these men had ever taken a turn down the wrong alley to find a man mating with an ATM only to feel guilty about interrupting such an intimate moment. None of these men had ever held a shotgun hoping, praying, that this last slug would penetrate some unidentifiable vital organ in a writhin mass that stared at them hungrily with blind eyes. And not a single one of them had ever rode the public transportation busses.
The busses were asylums on wheels. In the gray hours of morning, you could pay your dollar, climb on board, and ride the circuit of the dispossessed. People sat as far away from each other as possible because misfortune is communicable; it's catching. If the wrong person sneezed in your direction your credit would go bad, the repo men would finally find your car at your uncle's house, and the store manager would actually take the time to read your application to see that, yes, you had been convicted of a felony. The busses were greedy. Once you stepped on, you might as well get used to the hard plastic seats, the laughable padding, and the cardboard ads that told you to stay off drugs, mortgage your home, and buy soda.
As much as Hector hated the busses, he liked riding. For a single dollar, you could step on, sit down, and zone out for hours while the route was run. You didn't do anything, but there was still a sense of progress, of movement. That was why he and the old-timers (who were only sometimes old, only sometimes sober, and only sometimes conscious) would always be on the busses. He never spoke to them -- never spoke to anyone beyond a nodded hello to the driver -- but he gave them all nicknames. Harry Hairlip drooled like someone was paying him to do it. Rosie the Rum-Guzzler smelled like a truckstop floor. Chattering Bob would hold unending conversations with himself that would go for hours: twisting, hyperactive words that fell down hills of antipsychotic meds and drowned in dried-up rivers of debate. Hector never could zone him out. Hector would listen as Chattering Bob told someone who wasn't there what he thought about President Carter and hopscotch and scotch and scots and cots and his time in the Navy. Chattering Bob was crazy. He was irredeemably, irrevocably crazy.
Hector would stare into the bus windows, looking into the eyes of his reflection, peer over his own dark hair and stubbly beard and the jagged scar that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth and think I used to be that crazy, and know it.
Before too long, though, Guido would get hungry and he'd have to get off the bus and wander down a few sidestreets until he found a cat or pigeon and feed him.
But Hector was pretty sure none of these men had ever taken a turn down the wrong alley to find a man mating with an ATM only to feel guilty about interrupting such an intimate moment. None of these men had ever held a shotgun hoping, praying, that this last slug would penetrate some unidentifiable vital organ in a writhin mass that stared at them hungrily with blind eyes. And not a single one of them had ever rode the public transportation busses.
The busses were asylums on wheels. In the gray hours of morning, you could pay your dollar, climb on board, and ride the circuit of the dispossessed. People sat as far away from each other as possible because misfortune is communicable; it's catching. If the wrong person sneezed in your direction your credit would go bad, the repo men would finally find your car at your uncle's house, and the store manager would actually take the time to read your application to see that, yes, you had been convicted of a felony. The busses were greedy. Once you stepped on, you might as well get used to the hard plastic seats, the laughable padding, and the cardboard ads that told you to stay off drugs, mortgage your home, and buy soda.
As much as Hector hated the busses, he liked riding. For a single dollar, you could step on, sit down, and zone out for hours while the route was run. You didn't do anything, but there was still a sense of progress, of movement. That was why he and the old-timers (who were only sometimes old, only sometimes sober, and only sometimes conscious) would always be on the busses. He never spoke to them -- never spoke to anyone beyond a nodded hello to the driver -- but he gave them all nicknames. Harry Hairlip drooled like someone was paying him to do it. Rosie the Rum-Guzzler smelled like a truckstop floor. Chattering Bob would hold unending conversations with himself that would go for hours: twisting, hyperactive words that fell down hills of antipsychotic meds and drowned in dried-up rivers of debate. Hector never could zone him out. Hector would listen as Chattering Bob told someone who wasn't there what he thought about President Carter and hopscotch and scotch and scots and cots and his time in the Navy. Chattering Bob was crazy. He was irredeemably, irrevocably crazy.
Hector would stare into the bus windows, looking into the eyes of his reflection, peer over his own dark hair and stubbly beard and the jagged scar that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth and think I used to be that crazy, and know it.
Before too long, though, Guido would get hungry and he'd have to get off the bus and wander down a few sidestreets until he found a cat or pigeon and feed him.
posted by Ghostwind at 3/09/2006 02:45:00 PM
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