Bus Etiquette 101

So I'm riding the bus home last night. I'm sitting in the back, hoping that no one extremely large, smelly, or invasive sits next to me. It's my hope every night on the bus ride home. Last night, I didn't wish hard enough.

Jimmie, and I spell it with an ie because I surmise he does this for reasons unknown, sat down next to me smelling of oil and sweat, dirt and lust. Crap I thought. He was small, with stubby hands and stout legs that were too close to my bodice. Crap I thought again.

For the first part of the ride, mayhap the first 5 minutes, Jimmie sat silently, contemplating how he would break the ice with me; configuring the right words to win my love. I was reading my book, openly and abashedly reading; a signal to all those who find themselves next to me on the #19, "Shh, it's quiet time." Jimmie was absent the day they taught that signal. What follows is an abridged version of the actual conversation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"Pretty good book huh?" Jimmie said, sidling ever so imperceptibly closer.
Yes Jimmie, it's a great book. That's why I am reading it. Why don't you fuck off?
"What's it about?"
"It's about Mormons and how some of the Fundamentalist..."
"I have some Mormons on my mom's side."
Of course you do Jimmie. That's why you're here.
"Do you work downtown? I'm working on Burnside. So are you married?
Oh Jimmie, why are you asking me these questions? You are a dirty, small-handed, tobacco-chewing, red-haired midget monkey man. Of course I want to go out with you.
"No, I have a boyfriend."
"Aww, that's too bad because I was gonna ask you out to lunch tomorrow."

Now let me interrupt here for a moment: This conversation is all taking place while I have the book open, head down, turning pages. I am reticent to confab with Jimmie, but Jimmie will not shut it. The other passengers on the bus can feel me cringing.

"How old is your boyfriend?"
Actually Jimmie, I don't have a boyfriend, but I do have a cat.
"Twenty-nine."
"What's he do for a living?"
"He's a musician."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"A bar."

Then Jimmie starts to name the bars in which I may have met my musician boyfriend. Who does not exist. Dear God, what fresh hell is this? Why must I have to deal with this kind of conflagration? Why can't I read my book about Mormon Fundamentalists who murdered an innocent woman and her baby in peace? What did I do in a past life to merit the Creep on the Bus episode? I am too nice. I have a kind face. I have a pretty mouth. But from now on I am gay. Or a leper. Or a gay leper. Perhaps I should stop brushing my teeth or quit bathing. Would that help? Would that deter the Jimmies of the world?

No, it probably wouldn't. If I see Jimmie again, I'll just catch the next bus.