Man On The Bus Goes Roundandround

We all know the score on public transport; the code, the unwritten set of rules and guidelines designed to make the journey as bearable as possible.  You keep your head down, eyes focused on a paper, book or attractive body part of an unknowing member of the opposite sex.  Interaction is discouraged, talking expressly frowned upon  and actual bodily contact (or ABC) deemed worthy of  little else than a massive, massive kick up the them-that-must-not-be-kicked.

It always strikes me as a little sad.  Obviously there are times when one does not want to engage in some frivolous tittle-tattle with a stranger- not least early in the morning- but in general I am in favour of a little more interaction amongst our fellow transportees;  you never know who you’ll meet, after all, and there is no better leveller for London’s melting pot of freaks and weirdos than endless traffic snaking up Bishopsgate.

And it was as I was pondering this recently at the tail end of a long journey back from Devon, that I was nearly mounted by a stranger on the front seat (top deck) of the 26.  Shuffling my leg so as to  keep the circulation flowing after this rather abrupt case of ABC, I did what you do in that situation- give a little look to the offender, smile in a non-committal pursed lips-type way and go back to your own business; this time the Evening Standard Sport section.  I rested a while on reports from the tennis, before flicking the page to-touchdown!- a Spurs story.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see my seat-sharer looking intently at my paper, and I resisted the urge to do what we all enjoy doing- turning the paper up so the person desperate to catch a boredom alleviating glance is left with nothing other than a headline to mull over a hundred times.

Suddenly a hand comes down on the paper, flips the page casually back to the tennis, points to the picture of Andy Murry whilst a faintly high pitched African-sounding voice pipes up:
‘Whassa the score yesterday?’
Somewhere between pissed off and befuddled, I turn round.  A slight, black guy, 40’s wearing an orange bandana, army combat  trousers and a puffa jacket is slumped comfortably on his chair and looking at me, grinning and waiting expectantly for a reply.

‘Urgh, uhm,’ I’m thinking about it, ‘ three-nil to Federer.  Shame.’
‘Righhhht. But whassa the score?’
‘ Three-nil.’
‘Three-nil?’ That’s him asking again.
‘Yes. Three-nil.’
‘Wassa it close?’
‘Well, not particularly.  It ended 3-0.’
‘Righhhht’
‘ Though Murray should have won the third set.’

I smile at the bloke. He actually looks a bit simple. He smiles back, seemingly happy with the resolution , and then turns his eyes out the front.  I take what I see as a hint and go back to the Sport, this time an Arsenal story. Twenty seconds later the hand goes back to the paper, turning it back again to the tennis.

‘So wassa three-nil right?’
‘Yep.’
‘But wass the score in games?’
‘In games?  I don’t know that.  It’s not really measured in games though so its not too important.’
‘So wassa the score then?’
‘Well,’ he should know by now’  ‘three-nil’
‘Three-nil?’
‘Three-nil.’
‘Righhht.’

Again his eyes turns to looking out the window, I go back to the paper. It is now that I cannot help but notice that he starts twisting and flapping both hands above his head.  Their appears to be no reason for it, and certainly no rhyme. Is it a dance? Is he waving?  I don’t know, but I also choose not to question it- some things are best left unasked.  I am now pretending to read the words in front of me. He mumbles something, then turns the page back to the tennis and points at a picture of Rafael Nadal.

‘Spanish?’
‘Erm,’ I’m amused now, aware that we are the only ones speaking on the bus and that people are watching us, ‘yes.  Spanish. That’s Nadal.’
‘Where’ss he at moment?’
‘Injured.  He’s really damaged his knee.  Some say might not even play properly again’
‘Really?’
‘Yep, and he’s brilliant too.’
‘He fall over?’ Great question.
‘Well, no, I think its  a little bit more serious than that.’

The conversation continues in this vein for longer this time; him asking questions, me answering, him asking again.  I go into greater detail about Rafael Nadal’s knee injury than I have any right to, and feed him a load of half-baked information I may or may not have made up.  He seems happy enough.  I am- it makes a change to be next to such a cheery person on the bus, someone so seemingly devoid of pretence.  Once again the conversation tails off.  Back to the paper.

He starts mumbling something again, but he sounds grumpier this time.  I can’t quite make it out; it sounds like he’s saying ‘those bastards in front.’  I give him a quick glance out of the corner of my eye and go back to the paper.  Soon after this I can’t help but notice his hands not 6 inches from my head so, if not particuarly concerned more than a little intrigued, I turn round again and he is sticking both fingers straight up at me. And he’s not hiding it, oh no, he‘s proud; proud of his two bony fingers joining together in one glorious barefaced insult. His face has also changed- gone is the gormless grin of two minutes ago, and in its place is a serious (ish) scowl which, though not really threatening, suggests me and him weren’t going to be munching on strawberries at  Wimbledon this summer.  I try to give it a quiet ‘alright?’ and, in what is becoming something of a habit, go back to the paper.  He says nothing back to me, but his hands go back in his pocket- relief- then come out again and his V is being flicked out the window, then back to me.

What do you do in a situation like this? Do you say something?  Do you give it the Big One? Of course, anyone who knows me knows there is more chance of Nick Griffin turning up to work in a turban than me giving it said Big One, so instead I do the awfully brave thing, and continue to pretend to read, failing completely to suppress my joy at what is happening.

His hands go back in his pocket, and he slouches further back in his chair.  I’m torn- do I want him to get off, or do I want him to stay? If he stays am I going to end up in some most undesired argy- I do have a half drunk bottle of vodka in my bag which could be used as a coward’s weapon, but that’s not what God intended for it. And, lets be honest for a second, I’m not really going to do that anyway am I?

But if he does go this journey is going to become just another bus journey.

As it transpires a switch switches and the swearing and the mumbling stop rather suddenly, and I can see him looking at my paper again. A couple of stops later he gets up without a word, as though the exchanges we just had were totally normal, as everyday as Jeremy Kyle (cunt).  Maybe for him they are. Maybe they should be for all of us. While he’s waiting for the people already at the stairwell to make their way down I look up at him for one last time.

He’s smiling again.