Commuting Suicide
Killing myself slowly, day after day
Volume IV: "Banter"
If I were a bus driver, there would be stiff competition for the top spot in my "Stuff That Sucks About My Job" rankings.
The goofy uniforms would be up there. The miserable commuters, obviously. The fact that the worst part of everyone else's day is the only part of yours -- that's definitely Top 5.
But nothing -- not even having to explain to your black passengers why the bus drives past your cities to drop off the white folks before looping back -- can top the awkward banter with your customers. The only words people exchange with you are "Thanks," "Thank You," and, if someone's frisky and mixes it up, "Have a good day." Only two ways to return the conversational serve: "You too," or "You're welcome." Two-hundred times a day. That would kill me.
I give the obligatory "Thanks" each and every time I exit. Just being polite. But maybe it would be more courteous to avert my eyes. Do I have my head so far up my ass to believe this guy's day hinges on my shallow verbal expression of gratitude?
Next week, the silent treatment.
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