Mr. Seat Stealer

The last time I wrote about riding public transportation to work was on October 9th.  I promised if you wouldn’t stop reading that post I wouldn’t write about the bus for a month.  You finished reading (that was so nice of you) and I exercised self-control and didn’t write anything about the bus.  Success!  That sure wasn’t easy though, let me tell you.

Now that my self-imposed deadline has come and gone, I just have to vent.  Vent, vent, vent!  Venting is good.

Last week, a man started riding the bus.  He’s never ridden it before.  AND HE SAT IN MY SEAT!!!!  (Netiquette states that writing in all caps is tantamount to yelling.  My point exactly.)

For 1.75 years, I have been sitting in that very same seat, day after day, week after week, and month after month.  It is my intention to sit in the same seat until I retire and cease and desist riding the bus.  It’s kind of like sitting in the same pew at church.  It’s my seat.  I’ve laid claim to it.  Nobody else is allowed to sit in it.  Nobody.   Got that?

Why that particular seat? you ask.  First, it’s as far away from the air conditioner as I can get.  That means that during the summer my layer of permafrost only increases incrementally.

Second, the heater is underneath that seat.  When the bus driver finally decides to turn the heater on in the winter, the heat blasts directly on my legs charring them down to my subcutaneous tissue.  I love it when that happens.

I could sit in the seat behind him but Ms. Stone Face sits there.

Both Mr. Seat Stealer and Ms. Stone Face put over-stuffed book bags on the seat next to them sending out the unspoken message ‘don’t you dare sit by me!’  I could nonchalantly indicate I wanted to sit in that seat but that would look really dumb because the bus is almost totally empty and there are plenty of other seats.  But those seats are heater-challenged — and I want to sit where I’ll be warm.

I glared at him yesterday as I got on the bus.  He looked quizzically back at me not sure why I was so angry with him.  Can’t he read my mind?  Oh, I forget.  He’s a man.

Maybe I ought to beat him up tomorrow and teach him a lesson.  Maybe I should whack his kneecaps with a tire iron.  Maybe I ought to post a ‘you sit here you die’ sign on the seat.

My youngest son says that I am truculent.  I wonder how in the world he ever got that idea?

*truculent (adjective) meaning aggressively hostile; belligerent.