More Tales From The Transit Center

I Needed My Camera Today...

I've seen some pretty odd things at the METRO transit center where I catch the commuter bus into downtown, but nothing like the spectacle this morning.

I'm waiting for the 216 to show up, and as usual, it's caught in traffic, so I've got time to kill. I keep a paperback in my carryall for such delays, but peoplewatching is usually far more entertaining. You get some serious characters at the transit centers. If you go further out to the Park & Rides, everyone's basically a well-to-do commuter, or the odd college student going to U. of H. In other words, boring. The cross-section of humanity and the constant bustle of activity at the regional transit centers is always more appealing to me.

The station across the way from my waiting area is for the 40 Pecore route. I've got no idea where it goes, and in fact, have no clue where the Pecore street it's named for is located. Houston's pretty big, after all. I DO know that that particular bus route offloads a more scrofulous variety of passengers than any other route I've seen.

This morning, I was treated to a ragged pair exiting the bus. I assume they were father and son, judging from the matching Grizzly Adams beards both wore. The son was in his early 40's and after helping the older man to the bench, proceeded to wander aimlessly, chain-smoking Winstons.

The older of the bearded duo had to be at least 175 years old. He walked with a cane, had old blue sweat pants and a ragged Tshirt, covered by a plaid jacket and topped with a long-brimmed fishing cap. He looked like a withered old version of Ernest Hemingway with his white hair & beard.

I didn't pay them much notice after that, until Beard the Elder stood, and wedged himself into the corner of the shelter. I couldn't figure out what he was up to, until I saw the puddle emerging around his feet. Ewwww. I now know why the transit center smells like pee on hot days.

Well, oldsters have prostate issues, and the one bathroom in the joint is all the way at the other end. No big deal. I paid him no more mind.

Until he got up, and walked around to the side of the brick shelter. He proceeded to lower his pants, squatted against the wall beside the trash bin, and dropped a hefty steamer on the pavement.

At this point my jaw was on the floor. Well, it was, until I flashed on what was on the ground hereabouts, and quickly winched it back into place. The old geezer reached inside the trash bin, pulled out some newspaper, and cleaned himself, then hoisted his pants back into place and wandered back to his bench quite nonchalantly, given the magnificent social faux pas he'd committed in full view of the assemblage.

There's a scene in From Dusk 'Til Dawn where George Clooney's character sees what his psycho brother has done to a hostage, and though he's not much of an actor, his expression in that scene was worthy of praise. It was the epitome of "I can't believe I'm seeing this. I know I am, 'cause it's right here in front of me, but there's no freakin' way this can be here, but it is, and I'm lookin' at it. But I'm still not believin' it!"

I kinda mirrored that expression this morning. I really wish I'd had my camera, but I piss off enough people as it is without having a snapshot of a turd on my blog.

The old geezer watered down the wall one more time, and I had to jump on my bus. I kinda wanted to be late for work to catch the 9:05, just to see what bodily function would be put on display next.

I pity the cleaning crew today. I just wish I had a Baby Ruth wrapper to toss down next to the geezer's bundle of joy to give 'em a real surprise.