Humor Me (684 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.78 on 9 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by rick_the_stud (View user info) at 2005-06-29 15:26:21 EDT
It was something between humorous and pathetic, not to mention annoying. A few were people randomly drawn together on the greyhound, most all so obviously and completely lacking in social graces as to make any sort of normal human interaction damn near impossible.
Mike could not possibly fathom how he'd ended up with these people, or worse, how he had been thrown full-force into a maelstrom of inane, boring, and asinine babbling. He was all too aware of the very real possibility that seven hours on a bus with these people might actually kill him.
Upon further reflection, however, it was quite simple to recall how he'd arrived where he was. He'd boarded the pollutant-spewing mass-transit in Phoenix and took a window seat about two-thirds of the way back and waited to start moving. In the meantime he was joined across the aisle by a rather pregnant woman who sat back and was asleep almost immediately; something it seemed many people would be doing, traveling through the night to reduce the price of fare.
A woman in her early thirties boarded and took a seat behind him. She might have been considered attractive in some respects, but as it was she wore a dress of the "bohemian" style, though Mike just called it "hippie." It was not the most flattering style of dress in his opinion anyway, and on her it served merely to accentuate her extra-slim and somewhat lanky physique.
Another woman climbed the stairs at the front of the bus shortly thereafter and took a seat across the aisle one row back, behind the expectant mother. She was in her early twenties, cute, of some mixed descent, Asian perhaps, and still too young and optimistic about the world to be jaded like the hippie a few feet away.
The last person to stumble aboard was a man just shy of twenty-eight who was conceivably leaving home for the first time in his entire life. He was rather unkempt looking and pasty-skinned, the product of basement living and long nights of computer gaming and Dungeons & Dragons. His thick glasses and clumsy gait only served to accent his green, naïve perception of the world. Further, his pants were a good two inches higher on his waist than the current trend. He also had a slight stench about him, of baby powder, sweat, and grease, a scent Mike would become quite familiar with, as this final passenger took a seat next to him.
After apologizing his way toward the back of the bus and practically falling all over himself in an attempt to lift his overstuffed bag to the rack above, he collapsed into the aisle seat.
"I'm Randall," he wheezed out in a nasal voice, extending his hand.
Mike looked skeptically at the man sitting to his left, eyeing him up and down, before finally accepting his limp handshake. "Uh, hi." He was definitely not in the mood to strike up conversation with some random person who was probably headed to a Star Trek convention. In fact, he usually was not in the mood to strike up conversation with much of anyone, one of the many reasons he quit his job flipping burgers and bought a ticket to LA.
Turning back to his window, Mike slapped a napkin up against the glass and pulled out a pen he'd taken from the bank to scribble some lyrics. He didn't get very far before Randall leaned over and squinted through his lenses at Mike's handiwork.
"Watcha doin'?"
Mike pretended he hadn't heard, a tactic that would cause most normal people to turn back around and shut up. Subtlety was lost on Randall.
"I Said 'Watcha doin'?'"
Calmly, though at the price of great restraint, Mike pulled down the napkin and glared to his left. "Writing."
As he turned back to resume his musings, Randall, master of the obvious, felt need for rebuttal: "I can see that. I'm not stupid. What are you writing?"
Again, without harshly informing Randall to mind his own business, Mike pulled down the napkin. "Lyrics. To a song."
"Really?" exclaimed Randall, almost giddy with excitement, too much excitement, especially considering it was eleven p.m. and he was on a greyhound. "I write too. Poetry, I mean. Not song lyrics. But I guess they're kinda the same thing. I've even been published. Well, nothing spectacular actually, just some literary magazines way back in high school. But believe me, it's good stuff. One day I might just write for a living. But I don't think so. Just as soon as I finish law school . . ."
Mike had stopped listening at the words "high school."
Eventually Randall became aware of this, leading to a wonderful silence. Unfortunately, he could not tolerate silence, at the risk such a silence might be considered "awkward," a fact certain to be clear evidence of his lack of small talk prowess. To remedy the situation naturally required conversation be resumed: "So . . . what do you write about?"
The response was rather terse, "Annoying bus rides."
Momentarily taken aback, Randall feigned some laughter and nodded his agreement at the insult to his person with a "Ha. Good one." He decided to change his line of questioning. "Does that mean you're a singer, too? Or just a writer? Do you play an instrument? 'Cause my cousin plays guitar and he's really good. He's only been playing a few months but he's already lead guitarist in a band and he's really good at something called 'power chords' . . . "
The rambling ceased, though this time Mike didn't mind so much; he hadn't had to actually answer any questions, as Randall had taken care of that himself.
"I play keyboard," Randall volunteered. "My cousin said I might be able to join his band soon."
Mike decided to appease him, with the foolish thought that it might just shut him up. "That's nice," he said.
"Yeah. He says I'm really good, too. You better watch out. The next song you hear on the radio might just be by Randall Crantz."
"Awesome," Mike replied, somewhat less than enthusiastically. "Right after that collection of poetry makes the New Yorker and you argue a case in the Supreme Court, right?"
"You don't think I could do it? I think so, but I'm not sure because sometimes I just fool myself into thinking I could. But I bet I could if I really tried. So do you think I could do it? I mean, be in a band and play keyboard and everything . . . "
Mike was almost moved with pity at his insecurity and lack of self-esteem. Randall was of the breed of person who begged for the approval and attention of anyone. Unfortunately, he often did not find it. It was something of a cycle; people found Randall annoying due to his lack of confidence and rambling. He, in turn, was upset by his lack of success, causing further insecurity and rambling. All of this led to his next comment:
"You think I'm a loser, don't you? Am I annoying? God, I knew it. I can't talk to anyone without being annoying. I'm sorry. It's okay if you hate me. You don't think I'm a loser, do you?"
This time he waited for a response. Mike was baffled more than anything else. Finally, he managed to stammer, "No."
"That's a huge relief," Randall said. "Just make sure you tell me if I'm being annoying, 'cause that's the last thing I want to be, okay?"
Despite the clear opening he'd been given, Mike couldn't actually bring himself to tell Randall to shut the fuck up because he was, in fact, being annoying. Instead, he tried a different approach and said "Hey, Randall."
"Yeah?" he asked, eager to please.
"Well, I don't really mind, it's just that, well, it's late, and people are trying to sleep, y'know? An' I think our talking might be disturbing them and stuff, so, maybe—"
"Oh. I see how it is," Randall said, dejectedly cutting him off.
Mike turned back to his window and napkin and stopped halfway. After a minute he turned back. "Randall?"
"What?" he asked, with nothing even approaching his previous enthusiasm.
"So, what, uh, what kind of music do you play on your keyboard?"
"Oh, boy," said Randall with renewed enthusiasm. "I play a lot of cool stuff: Progressive gospel pop, old disco beats, polka . . . "
User Reviews
Submitted by crazybutsolazy (user info) at 2005-06-30 12:35:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked
Submitted by TheStitch (user info) at 2005-06-30 00:02:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Poor Mike. Good Mike. Good boy.
Submitted by Gollum81 (user info) at 2005-06-29 18:47:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by notyou (user info) at 2005-06-29 16:54:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-06-29 16:38:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Now I'm all agitated cause all the way through this I heard Randall's nasal voice and wanted to pund his face in.
Submitted by Stin (user info) at 2005-06-29 16:26:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice, I liked it a lot.
Submitted by RaineLark (user info) at 2005-06-29 15:55:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Liked it. Everyone knows a "Randall" in their life
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2005-06-29 15:45:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
well writ...
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-06-29 15:32:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Shoulda named 'Randall', 'JayPeg' - you would have gotten more hits that way.