California or Some Shit

On public transportation, people tend to cluster.

I don’t know why. I prefer to find a seat as far away from any other passenger as possible. And when I got on the bus the other day, I did just that — I walked past a half dozen people sitting in the first few rows and sat in the back, where it was empty.

The bus continued along its route, and a few more people got on, each sitting in one of the many empty seats toward the front.

A couple of stops later, the bus picked up a single passenger — a heavyset guy, probably in his late twenties or early thirties — wearing what looked like work clothes: Navy-blue Dickie’s chinos and a long-sleeved navy blue work shirt. They were filthy, the dirt permanently ground in. Despite the work attire, he was carrying a basketball, which, like his clothes, was covered with greasy handprints. As the bus pulled away and lurched into traffic, the guy ping-ponged down the aisle, bouncing against the shoulders of the other passengers, leaving a swath of irritation in his wake.

When he reached the final row, he pointed at the window seat next to me and said he wanted to sit there. I stood up and let him squeeze past me. When I sat down again, I left an empty seat between us. “You can sit here,” he said, tapping where I had been sitting.

I shrugged and told him, no worries, I’d be getting off soon. I saw no reason not to leave us each a little breathing room. In fact, I thought about moving to an entirely different row.

He seemed insulted that I didn’t want to sit next to him.

“You got something sticking out of your ear,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s a hearing aid.”

“Hearing aid? What are you part deaf?”

“Yeah, part.”

He looked out the window briefly, then back at me.

“Are you French or something?”

At first, I thought the two things were related — that he thought I was French because I was wearing hearing aids — but I realized it was a total non sequitur and that he was simply making conversation. It was funny either way, and I laughed. “French?" I said. "No. Why did you think I was French?”

“I dunno, you look like a French dude. What, are you from California or some shit?”

I went from being mildly amused to utterly insulted. “California?” I laughed again, which seemed to embarrass him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re not from New York.”

“Yeah, I am.”

He seemed unconvinced. Although I wasn’t born here, I’ve lived in New York longer than I’ve lived anywhere else.

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Can You Hear Me Now?