Bus stop eavesdrop

It was supposed to be a simple little  walk down the street.   Probably about three miles there and back.  (We city people think three miles qualifies for “simple” and “little.”)  The purpose was to drop off some press kits at a client’s hotel, followed by a quick pit stop at the bank before returning home.

Right before I left, I put on a cute new pair of Hush Puppies thinking this would be a great opportunity to break them in.   I stepped into them and attached the Mary Jane Velcro strap.  I took a few steps.

Heaven.  Damn, I’m going to love these cushy shoes, I thought.  So, I grab my purse and my press kits and off I go down the street.

Three quarters of the way there, I start to notice a bit of discomfort on the outside edge of my left little toe.    By the time I get to the bank, the discomfort has turned into pain.

I lean on the counter, and take the shoe off.  I reach for a band aid I typically keep in my purse.  (I’ve had shoe issues before, so I typically have a couple of band aids stuffed into one of the compartments.)   I figure, I’ll wrap one around the toe and then walk the mile and a half home.

Four steps later, I realize that plan needs to be scrubbed.  If I attempt that walk, I will probably elect to self-amputate my toes long about the third block.

N. Michigan Ave. aka the Blister Creator

So, I gingerly step over to the bus stop a few feet away.  I take a seat on the bench and proceed to eavesdrop on a variety of conversation and requests.

Here’s why I hear from a group of three girls and a guy:

Guy:  See that building across the street?  I saw the penthouse on one of those buying real estate shows.

Girl #1: He must have been really rich.

Guy:  This was going to be his first purchase.

Girl#2.  It would be really cool living up there.  Can you imagine how fun into would be to look into the windows of other apartments?  I bet you could see unlimited one-night hookups.

Me:  (inaudibly)  Yes, that’s a pretty normal criteria when evaluating a high rise condo purchase.  Dear real estate agent, in addition, to the imported granite counter tops and state of the art appliances, exactly how many times a week will I be able to see other people porking through my kitchen windows?

Mercifully, the MENSA girl and her friends board the bus and get on with their lives.

Next up, is a woman in her 20s, with a messenger bag hanging across her chest.  Just as her bus pulls up and she is getting ready to board, she turns around and says to me…

Do you have a dollar you can spare?

What I say is:  No.

What I want to say is:  Sorry, but I believe you’ve confused me with an ATM machine.  Take a look at my chest.  Do you see a keypad anywhere in that vacinity?  No?  Then STFU.  Because as far as I can see, you are able bodied and have a CTA card, which presumably you’ve bought.  So, what was it about me that screamed “she’s an idiot and will most likely hand over her wallet?”

Maybe she noticed me hobbling and thought she had an easy mark.  Not a chance.

Let me share one more thing with you.  This is the sign I encountered last Friday in a rest stop bathroom on the Indiana Turnpike.   I had no idea these people clean with Agent Orange.

Damn! I left the gas mask in the car.

Categories: Chicago style