I Hate the LTD

"Take Another Ride on the LTD, you can get it to go…”

You know what? Fuck that. If the LTD girl ever got on my bus, I’d put the smack down on her and her Gap discount-rack fashion sense. Eugene has had the LTD song drilled into its collective head like Malcolm McDowell had Beethoven’s Fifth. Yet not once has the motley crew of transients, junior-highers or mentally-handicapped who frequent my bus route ever spontaneously burst into song. Not once. Unless, of course you count that time the guy with the eye-patch went on a profanity-laced tirade from 18th to 29th. It wasn’t really a song though, and why he hates Jews so much I’ll never know.

LTD is an easy target. Everybody hates riding the bus. For me, it traces back to junior high, when I had a forty-five minute bus ride to school, with another excruciating forty-five minutes back at day’s end. Insult to injury, I lived along a bus route with more hicks and rednecks than the Missouri backwoods. I would have switched spots with Ned Beatty in “Deliverance” any day of the week, even when he was on all fours in the mud, squealing like a pig. At least those hicks were musically talented.

Like clockwork, the first sound I heard when I stepped on the school bus was Metallica’s black album busting out of some dolt’s boom box. Yes dude, as good as “Enter Sandman” was the last three weeks, I’m sure we’ll all be blown away by James Hetfield’s virtuoso guitar work once again today. And if you — my Iron Maiden T-shirt-wearing friend — could stop flicking the back of my ears today, that would be great. No? All right then, could you at least let go of my underwear? I think that last strand of cotton is about to break under the raw force of the atomic wedgie.

Following precedent, you’ll excuse me if I don’t flash a smile when I flash the driver my ID. I’m a junior in college, for the love of God. Shouldn’t there be a law prohibiting me from using public transportation? And shouldn’t the University of Oregon have the decency to build a parking garage, so those of us who live three miles away don’t have to risk getting mugged by a crack fiend on the way home every night? Is that too much to ask?

Where does the city of Eugene find LTD bus drivers? Banging on the boarded-up visage of the Vet’s Club, that’s where. Vietnam was a bitch, man. Not all the hippies in Eugene have found inner peace. Some are still traumatized head-cases, seeking moral redemption by way of a three-ton Greyhound. As traffic darts in and out of lanes, the drivers’ grasp on reality gets pushed through a melting window of perception, the snail crawls along the edge of the razor blade, Charlie’s face splits in half with a metal slug, and the soon-to-be-violated orphan girl looks up in terror as the good old boys in the Tango squad form a line and…THE HORROR!! For a vet, the 23 route is Eugene’s Cambodia, and those who dare set foot on the war bus are acceptable casualties in our never-ending war against communism.

Don’t think for a second that the bus driver cares about you. He doesn’t even know you’re there. I can attest to this: pulling the cord doesn’t mean the bus driver is going to stop any time soon. More than once I’ve seen people having to yell that their stop was three blocks ago. The bus driver just laughs and apologizes, all the while struggling to keep his inner demons in check. Me? I’m happy where ever I’m dropped off. Five blocks, six blocks, who’s counting? I have feet.

Traffic in Eugene is an endless battle between the LTD, rush hour traffic, energy-conserving bikers and pedestrians who wouldn’t recognize a crosswalk if it was covered in uncut cocaine. Everyone wants to be first off the starting line and last through the yellow light. The bus drivers curse the cars that cut them off, the cars honk their horns at the buses that hold up traffic every half block. The bikers just smile and give an unseen finger to the gas guzzling consumer culture. The whole mess comes together at 13th and Alder, as all of humanity converges on the event horizon. Bus, car, bike and pedestrian all stare, unblinking, in a Mexican stand-off.

The bus drivers can blame their erratic behavior on medication, but the passengers who frequent my bus route have no such excuse. Attention unwed teenage mothers with two kids: if you can’t control your filth-covered children, that’s your problem, but don’t let them crawl all over me. If I wanted Hepatitis B, I’d eat at Jack-in-the-Box. You should’ve taken your boyfriend’s advice the first time and used the coat hanger. There’s no going back now, so at least keep your welfare litter to yourself.

And please, be on time for the bus. It’s not hard. The bus is consistently late — it’s hard to miss. Yet everyday the same dumb-ass ends up running frantically down Hilyard, too stoned to understand the concept of time, backpack swinging back and forth with the gyrations of his fat ass, hands waving frantically to get the driver’s attention as he heads over the horizon.

“Stop, bus driver dude, stop!” he shouts into the wind.

And why would you bring your bike with you onto a bus? Are you riding the bus, or are you riding your bike? Which is it? Isn’t the purpose of riding the bike to get exercise? Does that only apply to the two blocks you have to “bike” every morning to the bus stop? I hate you people.

Why do the students of South Eugene High School get to ride the bus? Shouldn’t they have their own yellow bus to ride? They must know nobody is excited to see them pile on. Maybe that’s why they all head to the back, because God knows the back of the bus is the hippest place in the world. All the little Britney clones talk about the boys in the hall who may have stared at them today, and all the social reject boys talk about getting drunk on Daddy’s liquor supply. These young ladies could care less that the feminist college girls frown at thpathetic crooning, and the young lads feel no responsibility when the elderly lady they’re sitting by cringes at their constant use of the f-word. And what’s up with the girl who gets on the bus by the post office on Willamette? She knows who she is. Every day I put out the vibe, and every day you ignore me and sit alone in the back. Too good for me? Hey, you’re riding the bus too, so don’t get all high and mighty.

Have you ever seen those slow kids in the EMU who clean the tables? You know, the ones with the half-shaven facial hair, the big “I went to Disneyland” T-shirt, and the contorted facial expression of ignorant bliss? Do you ever wonder where they come from? My bus route, that’s where. Most of the time they’re cool. They get on the bus at the “special school,” nod their heads absently with that glazed-over look in their eyes and happily ride the bus route for two hours before they realize where they’re supposed to disembark. Well, one day one of the big dumb lugs just broke down. He was sitting in the back of the bus talking into a walkman as if it were a walkie-talkie, engaged in a deep conversation with someone named Sarah. Nobody seemed to be concerned that Sarah was only him with a high-pitched voice. The following is in no way exaggerated. To the best of my memory, this is how the conversation went:

“SPECIAL PERSON”: Sarah.
“SPECIAL PERSON” PRETENDING TO BE SARAH: Yes…
SP: Sarah, will you be my girlfriend?
“SP”PTBS: No.
SP: WHAT?! SARAH, I’LL HIT YOU!!
“SP”PTBS: No, no, don’t hit me.
SP: COME HERE…TAKE THAT…WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.
“SP”PTBS: No, you’re hurting me, stop!
SP: WHACK, WHACK, WHACK…

As he spoke, his words took on more and more conviction, his eyes lit up with anger, and he grew increasingly giddier as he realized all of the bus was staring at his impromptu stage production. His arms began to wail around in exaggerated spousal abuse. Passengers hesitated, wondering whether they should grab him and bring his emotional eruption to an end. The Ritalin had long worn off, and this shell of an 18-year-old half-man wearing adult diapers was all that remained.

What the hell brought on that outburst? Your guess is as good as mine. Some secrets are best left buried, lost in legend, another casualty of public transportation.