Chatty Cathy

A few days ago, while the heat hovered in the hundreds, I took a different commuter bus home than normal. I'd gotten a ride from a co-worker to a different bus pickup location, so I decided to brave it. There is something to be said for keeping to a routine -- for sticking to known evils and the like. I've learned my lesson for sure. Number 1 - Never opt for the window seat when you have to ask someone to get up to give it to you. There's a reason they've sat down in the aisle seat. It's a signal meaning (a) I smell badly. (b) I lack social skills. or (c) I have to be near the aisle so that the authorities can escort me out at any time since I'm so damn annoying. Number 2 - If someone tries to engage you in conversation, pretend that your earbuds are blocking out all sound. This is the most important tip of all.

So that brings me to Thursday afternoon. I trudged down the aisle, shimmering like tinsel, dragging a remnants of a trail of humidity from the outside with me. All I wanted was to sit down, position the little air jets above the seat onto my body and close my eyes for 40 minutes. I asked a seemingly normal-looking man if I could have the seat next to him. Now, had he just moved over into the window seat, I would have been fine. But he did that pivot move -- the one where you have to scoot by and you feel like you're shoving your ass in the person's face. Not comfortable. But what can you do? He said, "Tough day at the office?" as I had sighed heavily when sitting down. I answered, "Nah, just hot out today," and immediately inserted my headphones into my ears. That's the move. It means, "I'm not interested in talking. I'm locking myself into a sphere of silence and pretty much, you do not exist." It's not rude. It just is. It's standard for commuting, regardless of the mode of transportation. You don't make eye contact. You don't talk. If your phone rings, you talk quietly for as little time as possible.

So this guy starts talking. To me. Even though I'm clearly plugged in and looking out of the window. "Have you noticed that people are using technology more and more and not communicating with others? Why do you think that is?" He asks. So I pull out one of the earbuds and give him the, "you talkin' to me?" look. "Well," I posit, "I guess it's just at the end of the day, people are tired and want to tune out. Get a nap in. Just rest. You know?" Of course I answer him in a quiet, almost whisper voice so he'll be hip to the fact that he's talking too loudly and for too long. What a mistake that was... engaging him. Because he took the baton and started to run with it. And of course, he talked just loudly enough to be too loud. "I guess you're right," he said. He talked about im-ing with his wife. About the fact that sometimes she got mad when he didn't answer her emails. It was payback he said for not calling him instead. He apparently detests electronic communication. For some reason, I suggested that maybe people emailed one another instead of calling because maybe they thought it was less intrusive. I said, perhaps she emailed you so as not to disturb you in a meeting? He wasn't buying it.

So, I'm still sitting there with my Ipod in my hand, earbud between my finger and thumb like a thread ready to be inserted into a needle. I'm all but ready to do the "thanks for the chat" smile and get back to my music when he pauses and says, "Can I ask you something?" -- If only I could muster the strength to say, "I think you've already asked enough Chatty Cathy!" But it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as he just started in on his next topic. "I make a great salad," he says smiling proudly. "Really great. I make the dressing from scratch and I bring it to my sister's house for all family dinners. And it's really great. I put in dried appricots and ...." at this point I just zone out. He's beginning to remind me of that other loud-talking kook, er, cook, Rachel Ray. I know there's some question coming around the bend, so I decided to tune out until I hear his voice get a bit higher-pitched and I know it's my brief turn to answer. "... and my neice and nephew never eat the salad. And it's a really great salad. And they never eat it and I don't know why," he finishes. Sigh. Who gives a shit? Really. "They're kids. Kids don't like salads." I offer. "Well, I want to just look at them and say, 'eat the damn salad!'", he says ruefully. "Do you think it would be rude to do that? Do you think my sister would get mad?" He asks. "Yeah. I think I'd be annoyed if someone tried to parent my kids," I say. "You know," I say, "maybe she doesn't say anything because it's easier to keep the peace when you're at a family dinner. Maybe she would rather talk to you than fight with her kids. Sometimes as a parent you pick your battles." I say. "But how can I get them to eat the salad? It's a really great salad." Oh enough with your salad! So I tell him, why don't you just ask them what kind of salads they enjoy and bring that one next time? Wow - what a break through. Put me on the next plane with Condi.

Finally, I give up on the Ipod. I've had it poised for 25 minutes, but clearly, I'm not getting out of this conversation. Chatty Cathy says, "I guess you haven't gotten a chance to listen to your Ipod," with a smug look on his face. Really Sherlock? How did you ever notice - your mouth has been running at such a constant pace that I can't imagine your eyes can see past the blinding speed of your flapping lips. I just smile slightly. What else can I do. Of course, at any point possible, I give the sidelong glances to the others on the bus who have turned around and looked at us with that, "when are you going to shut up?" look. At one point, I give this one tired East Asian woman the "OH LORD WHEN WILL HE SHUT UP" face.

We're not far from our stop when he turns to me, laughs and says, "Do you like hampsters?" What? Do I like hamsters? Sure, the salad conversation was strange. But hampsters? "We have this really great hampster. It should be dead, but we feed it really great food. My wife is a... nutrition-... well, she took nutrition classes in college and..." he's struggling to find the right word. "Dietician?" I offer. "Well, no, she just knows how to eat really well. The right foods. And anyway, we feed our hampster the best lettuce." At this point he starts to name all the different types of lettuce he feeds this animal. "So do you like hampsters?" he asks again. "I'm not a big fan of the rodent family," I say. "He says, "It's rodant. Like the artist." What artist you freak? Rodin? Yeah. Of course. How stupid of me.

Anyway, I blocked out the rest of the conversation, got off of the bus, shared looks with the people around me, frequently mouthing the words words "oh my God!" so they'd know I was hijakced into the conversation and not to hold it against me. I certainly learned my lesson. Next time I'm going to pretend I can't hear over my music. What a freak.