But the other day I had to walk downtown. And because the Kona winds have made it hotter than one of Kathie Lee's sweatshops in Nicaragua, I thought I'd drop a buck and ride back to the News Building in cool comfort.
I wasn't so much interested in TheBus as TheAirConditioning.
I know there is some logical method to the routing and numbering of buses. And I know that with just a little effort, even I could figure the system out. But it seems like lottery number chop suey to me. So I told my wife my plan to walk downtown and take the bus back. After she stopped laughing, she told me exactly which buses I could and couldn't catch. I could catch any bus with a number in the 50s and would be deposited right on the News Building's doorstep. I could even take selected 40s. But I definitely didn't want to take any ones, twos or threes. She seemed to recall that 20s were bad. My eyes began to glaze over.
"Stick to the 50s. Take any bus with a 50 number and you'll be OK," she said.
Secretly, we both knew it was hopeless.
I moseyed downtown to do my business and then stood at a bus stop near Nuuanu Avenue.
Waiting is not something I'm good at. I'm into instant gratification. If I have to stand around in one place, out in the open, I feel vulnerable. I stood my ground waiting for TheBus.
A small old man came up and stood beside me. He was quite dapper, but promptly hocked up a loogie and let it fly in the general direction of my Reeboks. I looked at him like he was insane. He looked at me like I was insane. A few seconds later he let another salvo fly in the other direction. I guess it was his idea of courtesy.
I looked at him again trying to register my revulsion at his continued expectoration. He looked at me as if to say, "What? It wasn't even near you."
Not knowing bus stop etiquette, I didn't know if I should reprimand him for his behavior. I stood silent. Several buses stopped. They were all of the wrong number variety. People got on these buses and left. Except for me and "The Spitter."
"The Spitter" then took out a crusty-looking comb and proceeded to drag it across his head. Then he dragged his thumb nail over the teeth of the comb, shooting flecks of white junk toward the street.
THEN he began to dig his pinky finger into his right ear. He jammed it in there up to the second knuckle and excavated a large chunk of wax or extraneous brain matter. This, too, flicked out into the street.
That was it. I couldn't take any more. I started to walk down King Street, thinking I could at least wait at a bus stop without such extracurricular grooming.
I reached the next stop and no buses of any caliber were in view, so I kept walking. By the time I reached the Post Office, I was sweating like Richard Nixon and the only buses going by were the "Dreaded Twos" and the "Hateful Ones." Even a Number 20 went by to mock me on it's merry way toward Diamond Head.
Had I stepped onto one of those, I would have been whisked off to mystery spots, possibly never to return without having to call my wife to pick me up. I don't think either of us could bear the humiliation of that.
"Where are the 50s?," I thought, like a man in the desert hurting for water. "Is that a Number 55 coming or a mirage?"
It was a tour bus.
By the time I reached Kawaiahao, I knew I'd be taking no bus rides that day. As suspected, a bus numbered 55 pulled up and stopped just as I reached the News Building.
Sitting by a window, looking cool and dapper, was "The Spitter."
