The swooning Romeo invariably attempts to press his twitching body as close to yours as physics will permit, allowing you a more intimate environment in which to bathe in the intoxicating aroma of his latest binge at the Chee Chee Club. You find that you become drunk through the magic of osmosis.

Why, just cashing a check at my bank requires me to pack a lunch and cancel my mail.

Sometimes it seems the buses run on their own random schedule determined by a nameless greater power who likes to keep the riding public guessing. Half a dozen buses could be going in one direction before any of them makes the return trip. The drivers are either frighteningly happy, greeting each passenger with a smile. Or they look at you as though you were personally responsible for all the wrongs that ever plagued them.

Half of the agony involved in the bus ride is in the pre-ride waiting ritual. It seems that the first bus of my trip is always oddly punctual and uprooting me from a relatively satisfactory waiting area, only to deposit me for an interminable wait in the bowels of crack alley. I always find myself en route from work and faced with the troublesome decision of selecting the least sinister corner at which to catch my transfer.

On Broadway after nightfall, such an endeavor is optimistic at best. There’s at least one lunatic on every corner, and if he isn’t there when you arrive, he’ll be there soon enough. And once he gets there he will designate you as audience for his obscure Biblical prophesies before asking for a cigarette and a quarter.

Just the other day a barefooted maniac staggered down the street, raving maniacally while prodding the urine-stained sidewalk with a ski-pole. Evidently, he was disappointed with the winter sporting conditions in the area.

And for every dirt-streaked schizoid, there is a greasy, leering love-seeker who somehow fantasizes a remote possibility that you’ll accompany him back to the halfway house to spend a quiet evening handcuffed to the drainpipe.

With an initial look-over they speculate your property value and decide whether or not to pursue. Then they attack you with platitudes such as: “Wuz up?” To this you reply, “Not much,” and glare with extra ferocity, hoping that the psychic message will be received without need of translation. If the message fails, the questions begin: “What’s your name? Where do you live?” This suggests that, at some point, some woman actually replied to these questions.

At the risk of offending the delicate sensibilities of a potential stalker, I make it a practice to withhold this information.

The bus stop pursuer seems eternally oblivious to your attempts at ignoring him as you watch desperately for your bus. And, regardless of the corner you had so carefully selected, the buses are always visible in the distance.  But, they linger there as though trapped in a portal between two dimensions. Eventually, you convince yourself that it is just another mirage.

Once the bus has finally arrived, your relief is short-lived when you remember that there is still the ride to withstand followed by the walk home from the bus stop. Often the ride is just as uncomfortable as the wait. On one of my rare morning commutes to work, I was forced to sit near a man and his friend as they shared a bottle of liquor cleverly disguised in a paper bag. This was a trick he had, obviously, copped from the CIA covert operations manual.

I, of course, ignored them, only occasionally peering from the corner of my eye when I could sense their hungry, lecherous eyes. The one sitting next to me kept attempting to attract my attention by offering me the bottle. Presumably, this was an effort to gain my favor. But, I foiled his plan by refusing to acknowledge his existence.

When I see all of those lonely, single women riding in their cars, I realize that they have no idea what they’re missing. All of those wasted nights at the clubs ending in a Ben & Jerry’s binge on the sofa. All the while, romance was awaiting them at their corner bus stop. After all, what red-blooded woman can resist a drunk with a bus pass?

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