Denizens of the Bus or Citizens to Nowhere, part
A man strung out on speed is curled up and rocking on three of the seats reserved for the elderly on the metro rapid bus at rush hour, chanting inscrutable unknowns to himself. This is not terribly unusual—yet.
He starts shouting, and after signalling his stop, casually stands up, whistles, and while grasping the upper bars that most bleary eyed commuters are content to merely hold onto, the man spins backwards. The bus driver promptly stops the bus, and instructs the man off the bus. “Not here, I ain’t.” The man retorts.
The bus driver yells at the man, this time pointing his finger towards the door. The man’s eyes widen, and he throws his hands in the same way that The Karate Kid would have made if he were high. Then, maintaining his hands, the man scuttles sideways off the bus like a crab.
We spend the next hour sitting in traffic due to construction on Wilshire and an accident. Perhaps we collectively angered the traffic gods by kicking The Karate Kid off the bus.