 |
| "Fun level is conditional upon user's definition of the word 'Party.'" |
Now that I'm scurrying to and fro in a car, it's led me to reflect on times when I used other forms of transportation.
When I was in middle school I rode the public bus home from west Eugene to north Eugene every day. It was a two-connection ride that took about an hour and a half. On the first bus I'd sit in the back with a group of three other regulars: two guys – a larger fellow named Jeremy and his younger brother – and a girl whose name I have no idea how to spell, but it was pronounced "Katang."*
None of us were that similar, so we didn't get along very well. Jeremy's family was poor, and he and his brother liked to engage in mostly self-deprecating humor. The sort where everyone laughed, but mainly out of discomfort because what was said likely had a sad truth behind it. Katang was a nice enough girl, polite and temperate. But as a conversationalist there was a lot to be desired. Some days she wouldn't say a word to any of us, and when she did it was usually only in response to something else.
I suppose I can't blame Katang too much. Jeremy and his brother were obnoxious, and if the group could be asked today what I was like, I imagine they'd say I was kind of an asshole to everyone. Something I wouldn't argue. I think it was because I considered myself smarter than the others. Really, I was just a naive band kid, boastful and lacking modesty. By the time the bus ride was half over, though, I'd be the only one left. Sitting quietly alone, I would miss their company.
The second bus was always interesting since a large group of students from North Eugene High School used it as well. I did my best to avoid talking to them because they seemed to speak an entirely different language. Occasionally they'd amuse themselves by asking stupid questions like what my preferred liquor or brand of cigarette was. Yes, with my high water jeans, saxophone case and over-gelled hair...clearly, I spent my free time chain smoking and knocking back fingers of rye malt.
They also gave me a nickname. Little P. When I'd step off the bus someone would always call out, "Yo, Little P, peace to the P.O.C.!" I figured in time I might come to understand what the fuck that was supposed to mean, but I'm still waiting. By now, chances are one of them gave birth to a Little P of their own. I'm certain the lectures it's heard on peace treaties for this nebulously defined P.O.C. have been invigorating.
*Out of curiosity I decided to Google it, and appparently "Katang" is an actual word. It's the name of an indigenous Laotian subgroup whose members live in longhouses and stretch their earlobes with bamboo. The more you know, I guess: http://joshuaproject.net/people_groups/12566/LA
