The Belly of the Beast

My music lessons take place in the Practice Building at Indiana University. I thought it would be dysfunctional to try to find parking on campus so I decided to ride the public transportation to campus instead of driving. I don't live very far from campus so I thought not only would this prevent my car from being ticketed, towed, and bludgeoned by claymores by the grunting state employees who can destroy your car with no accountability because they are, after all, state employees--but it would also be a fun adventure.

The last time I rode buses anywhere was in Knoxville, Tennessee, when I was a much younger fellow, and the bus drivers were fairly courteous and reasonably skillful drivers. So far, I've ridden the Indiana public transportation four times. I've literally entered the belly of the beast four times, and, like Ishmael, I alone have emerged alive to tell the tale of rude, obnoxious, unhelpful, and in a couple of cases, dangerous drivers.

The first incident occurred on the way to my first lesson. I boarded the bus, paid my fare, said "hello." The driver glared at me, grunted, slammed the door shut and stomped the accelerator before I could sit down. I was nearly flung through the back window. What followed was a careening velocity through the streets of Bloomington, terrorizing drivers and pedestrians alike. Cars stopped at traffic lights risked having their entire front ends sheered off. I could clearly see the pale, shocked faces of the drivers. Our driver, in the meantime, emitted savage, growling noises that were just barely human. I got off two stops before my destination, savoring the sweet joys of being alive.

The second incident occurred after my lesson, on the ride home. While attempting to decipher the series of squiggles that served as a bus schedule, I asked the driver when the next bus arrived. He looked at me as though I had asked for the answer to life's most baffling enigma: "I don't know Buddy," he wailed. Then loudly, as though I didn't understand his predicament, "I DON'T KNOW, Buddy." I nodded, not willing to pursue the matter, since apparently knowing the schedule of his own bus route was too much for his overtaxed nervous system, and I had seen what happen to these bus drivers when they were pushed too far.

My story doesn't end here. I rode the bus to my second lesson and apparently broke some sacred rule. After a certain point, I was the only passenger on the bus. The driver stopped the vehicle and glared at me. "Where are you going?"

"Campus."
"This bus doesn't go there."
"It did last week."
"Well, it does in the other direction. This is a different number bus. I just changed it."
"But it's the same bus."
"No, I changed the number. It's a different bus. You have to get on at Third Street to go to Campus."
"So do you drive the bus to Campus?"
"Yes, in the other direction."
"So if I stay on this bus, it will go to Campus?"
"Yes, but you can't stay on this bus, it's the wrong bus."

If your mind is boggling, I don't blame you. So was mine. I'll give you the synopsis. The Number Four bus goes from my part of town to a certain point, changes to the Number Five bus, goes further out, turns around, changes by magic back to Number Four and goes to Campus, then back to my end of town. And here's the rub: You cannot stay on the bus past the point where Number Four becomes Number Five, or Vice-Versa. Why? Because they are two different buses. Wow. Why doesn't it describe a big, continuous loop while maintaining continuity of identity? Is it trying to confuse its enemies? If it's still a mystery to you, here's the secret: With a simple flick of a switch, you get twice the cash for a six-mile bus ride. I would like to say this is a stroke of genius, but it isn't. It's idiotic. Just a bureaucratic way to make a little more money and create more confusion in the bargain.

Extracting this information was like pulling teeth from a Siberian Tiger. The driver became more and more irate, as though I were born knowing this information and was deliberately being dense just to irritate him. By the time the entire situation was clear to me, he was shouting. He kept repeating all this was explained in the schedule. I can tell you it is not. The schedule is a list of times and a squiggle of lines labeled "Route" that doesn't even have the streets named!

I asked him what he wanted me to do--get off the bus, reboard, pay another buck? He generously offered to "bail me out--this time" by allowing me to ride the bus back to Campus. Apparently The Magic Mystery Bus DID go back to Campus. Okay.

During the ride back we picked up a full contingent of college kids and other strays. The stress of the situation triggered my oral compulsion, so I pulled an oatmeal cookie from my pocket and took a bite. The driver must have been watching me like a vulture, because he screamed, "Hey--no G-dammed food on the bus!"

Well, I had had enough. It occurred to me that I had my cell phone on me, and not that I was any better than anyone else on the bus, but the only reason I was riding in the belly of this Beast was not because I had to, but because I didn't want to try to find parking on campus. I figured if this psycho ejected me from his bus, I could call a Limo service, make a point to drive alongside his sacred bus, moon him, teabag him, and flip him off all at the same time.

So screw him. I took my time eating my cookie.