mikidemillion

Ride the Storyline Express – What a Catch!

In Don't Read This - It's Personal, Random Posts, Ride the Storyline Express, Uncategorized, Writing - Novel Chapter Posts, Writing - Short Story Posts, Writing - Understanding Style and Technique, Writing - Work in Progress on April 3, 2010 at 4:51 am

For those new to the concept, when I tag-surf WordPress I notice posts about Writer’s Block.  I suggested a way to get around the block – ride public transportation.  The stories, people, the stories!

If we share what we see out there and post it, then other writers might read it and get ideas from it.  SHARE THE RIDE.  If you want to join, either comment here, leave a link to your own story, or post your story and tag it with Ride the Storyline Express.  We’ll find you.

Here a link to the other stories I’ve posted to date:

https://mikidemillion.wordpress.com/2010/03/28/ride-the-storyline-express-with-booger-boy/

and

https://mikidemillion.wordpress.com/2010/03/21/writers-block-ride-the-storyline-express/

With that said, let’s get to the next story on the mikidemillion route:

For months I’d noticed the man with the fishing pole.  He’s hard to miss,  a big man who takes up a full seat and then some of the next.  He sits in the front of the bus on the sideways seats.  Two halves of a fishing pole stick out of a big white bucket held steady on the floor between ankles of yellow rubber boots.  He’s an older man but even with hair whitened by gray he doesn’t look retirement age.  Bib overalls latch across his chest, an unusual sight on a bus packed with students and 9-to-5ers.

There is a reality show on television about the life of crab fishermen.  I’m mesmerized by it.  Rough and tumble men, king crab fishermen, ride the icy Bering Sea in search of a big catch for an even bigger payoff.  It’s not the kind of job a soft office-worker-bee would consider.  These are stubbled men with scars.  A Saturday night drunken trip to the tattoo parlor would be laughable to them.  Think you’re tough?   The scratch of a tattoo piercing is nothing compared to the real pain of a shoulder wrenched out of a socket or a chunk of flesh gouged out of the arm.  All while chilled to the bone.  Tattoo?  hah!  For the weak ones.

So I looked at this fish-out-of-water bus rider with a preconceived notion he was someone with strength to tough it out, a natural provider.  Romanticizing the rugged life.  Was he a loner?  Did he give his heart to the sea?  Maybe a deep thinker, spending hours on a sun-filled dock, listening to water lapping onto shore, and analyzing why we are here on this earth.

I sat near him one morning.  After a few blocks he pushed his disassembled pole aside to reach into the pocket of his overalls.  A cell phone appeared in his hand.  What a disappointment.  Captain Ahab would never pull out a cell phone, no matter what century he was in.  Was my legendary seaman just a guy who fished?

“What are you doing?” he said to the phone.  His voice loud and graveled, at least that was as it should be.  He listened for a second, leaned forward, then exploded.

“I told you I want the clothes washed this morning.  Did you do the dishes?  I don’t want to see dishes in the sink when I get home.  And make lunch early.  What?  Do what I tell you, you hear me?  No, I want you to do it now.  Shut up and do what I say, you hear me?”

He was loud, loud enough to bring everyone on the bus to a stunned silence.  He clipped his phone closed, dropped it in his pocket and settled back in his seat.

There was a confused moment when my mind re-categorized the guy in my brain.  From fisherman to jerk.

“Oh, aren’t you a big man?” a woman sitting across from him said.

“What’s your problem?” the man stared at her.

“My problem is how you talk to women.”

“It’s not your problem so stay out of it.”

“Maybe you can talk to your woman like that, but not to me.”

“Yeah?  What are you going to do about it?”  He actually sneered at her.

“I’m not afraid of you.  Jerk.  I’m telling you, you can’t speak to women like that.  And some of us will stand up to you and let you know it.”

“You want to take this out to the sidewalk?  Come on, get off the bus and meet me outside.”

“You think I can’t beat you up?  Oh, what a small man you are, picking on women.  Jerk.”

“Want to get off the bus right now?”

“You are not worth my time.  And you’d better not put a hand on that poor woman you were talking to.  Bullies like you belong in jail.”

“Oh yeah,” the guy stands and speaks louder, “let’s go lady.”

The woman sits up higher in her seat.

The driver stops the bus at the corner and stands between them in the middle of the aisle.  They glare around the driver at one another, in lunging positions.  The driver puts out her hands to motion both back in their seats.  “Enough is enough,” the driver says.  “or one of you will have to get off here.”

They continue to stare at each other but neither says a word.

“Good,” the bus driver says and returns to her seat.

“Jerk,” the woman says again, not really under her breath.  Loud enough for those of us sitting nearby to hear.

Jerk, I think, not  aloud.  I’m all for protecting women and everything but my commitment isn’t strong enough to risk showing up at work with a bloody nose and black eye.  Especially when the woman to be protected is an unheard voice on the other end of a dead cell phone line.

And I think of  the guy I once romanticized.  What a catch.  That poor woman should have tossed him back into the water the moment he climbed into her boat.  There is no payoff for that cargo.

What’s interesting is the guy got off the bus after two more blocks.  Not his usual stop.  I’m usually off the bus before him and I had a long way to go.  And I haven’t seen him since.

It makes me wonder, when is the best time to defend an injustice?  Am I part of the problem?  Sitting and watching as the drama unfolds.  Or, is it better to pick battles that ensure results with minimal danger.  I’d like to think that woman on the bus made Mr. Yellow Boots think twice before barking at his wife.  I doubt it.  Probably made him angrier.  But it did make him change his route so that’s something.

And I’ll never assume a man with a pole is anything more than a man with a pole.

So, what about you?  Have a story to share?  Take us for a Ride on the Storyline Express!

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  1. What an intriguing turn-around! Brilliantly written, Miki. You sure do meet the strangest people on the bus.

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