by Tessie H

Created on: August 03, 2011

"...and THAT is when I realized that he fancied himself RuPaul," said the short, chunky lady just to my left on that long bus ride home.  I had been inadvertently been caught in the middle of her conversation with the woman across from me, as she relayed her tale of finding out that this "he" was a cross dresser. 

"Ru-who?" came the companion's confused response, and judging from her age, mid-fifties was being kind, it was a legitimate confusion. 

"You know.  Ru-PAUL [emphasis on that last syllable showing annoyance]. That cross dresser that's on tv.  Looks like a lady but is a man?"

"You found David in lady's clothes?"  the older lady gasped, a wrinkled hand covering her mouth in either shock or disgust. 

"My very BEST dress," came the chunky lady's haughty reply.  "I told him to take his cross-dressing self out of MY apartment that I pay for and have that dress cleaned!"

The bus pulled up on a stoplight, lurching its behemoth frame to a not-so-smooth stop.  I pictured this David not as RuPaul but more like Mike Tyson in a dress that was clearly too short for him but certainly plenty of room in the buttocks, judging from the girth of the shorter, mouthier lady.  I wanted to hear more, but they'd moved on to a conversation about their workday, and it was far less exciting hearing about how many reports the older woman had had to proofread for her boss, so I turned my attention to the conversation of the couple to my right. 

"...love you, Lara.  I don't know what I can do to make this better." 

Lara.  "Lara's Theme" rang in my head and I silently cursed Netflix for its "Dr. Zhivago" Watch-It-Instantly recommendation.  Damn, damn, damn.  That song was ringing in my head again.  I wanted to tell them how rude they were for reminding me of it, but the drama unfolding had them rapt. 

"You need to tell your mother to stop meddling," she hissed, her eyes darting around.  I averted mine just in time to avoid being caught snooping.  "She's always complaining." 

He leaned in close to her and whispered something, as the bus jerked into motion, so I could not hear whether he acquiesced to Dr. Z's girl or not.  That stupid song was making it's second round in my brain, threatening to drive me mad.  The song and the overly brake-zealous bus driver who stomped his foot onto the pedal at every hint of wind.  I just wanted this to be over. 

At the next stop, Dr. Zhivago's girlfriend and her wimpy, mother-caving significant other got off, leaving an empty space by my seat but the song still ringing in my head.  I set my bag down, hoping to ward off any of the pole-holders who might be tempted to sit too close to me as they spied the seat that they had probably coveted for the last 4 stops.  An elderly man, frail and smelling of Ben Gay sat next to the bag, his dead eyes staring into the abyss of pretending not to notice anyone or anything on that bus.  Eye contact could mean trouble for him.  There were lots of dangerous types that rode buses, IRS agents and the like. 

The bus jerked on, a spasmodic caterpillar, heading from stop to stop.  People got on and people got off.  Chunky lady and her older friend had moved onto a conversation about the older lady's daughter's loser boyfriend.  I tried to renew my interest but I'd had it after the long day, so I stared into the same abyss that my elderly riding partner seemed to and counted my blessings that the next stop was mine.  Tomorrow, I would call the mechanic and see if my car was ready. 

Learn more about this author, Tessie H.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.