“You wouldn’t believe how pensioners these days are just cheeky!” the plump elderly woman with faded pink hair says abruptly.
“I beg your pardon?” T says faintly, startled out of her unfocused standing-at-the-bus-stop state. It’s been a long afternoon of getting her eyes dilated at the clinic (for free, mind you: go NHS!), then getting her spine adjusted at the chiropractor. She’s just wanting to get home and eat.
“Those pensioners on the bus. They’re just plain cheeky,” the woman repeats, and moves toward her confidingly.
Pensioners!? she thinks to herself, mentally scrolling through possible alternatives for the meaning of the word. (Isn’t that just a retired person?! Isn’t the woman with the interesting dye job a retired person?!)
Taking her polite expression as an invitation (oh, dear), the woman leans forward, quivering with righteous fury.
“They’ve got filthy, cheeky mouths on them, and I won’t stand for it,” the woman continues, shaking her head. “Do you know, I was on a Number 44 bus, and I was going to get off, but one of them said to move to the back. Well, I was going to get off, and I told him so, and he says “‘F’ off, he did.”
“Seriously?” T. says, looking properly dismayed. “That’s terrible.”
“And I said, ‘You won’t talk to me like that, mister,'” the woman continues firmly. “I told him I wouldn’t stand for it. I wanted to punch him in the head.”
“And the driver did nothing?” T. asks, thinking of the driver on the bus back from Edinburgh who had threatened to put a passenger out for singing.
“Not a thing,” the woman says in tones of satisfied disgust. “Everyone says, ‘Ignore him, pay him no mind,’ but I would not. I got right off. I wanted to punch him right in the head.”
“It’s just as well you got off that bus, then,” T says, smothering a smile at the idea of the round woman with the tinted hair punching an old man in the head, Chuck Norris style. “I expect he’d had a few, then?” she adds.
“Eh? Oh, aye, he was drunk,” the woman rolled her ‘r,’ making the word sound much more exotic than expected. “Filthy, cheeky drunk,” the woman mutters, her mouth tight.
“Well. That is a shame,” T. says a little desperately. She’s out of brilliant conversation. “How awful for you.”
“That’s our bus,” D. says from beside her, sotto voce. T breathes a quick sigh of relief.
The woman is not finished. “He went on about all the different nationalities,” she says suddenly. “It was a terrible thing to hear, that was.” The woman’s red-rimmed eyes fill with tears, and T. feels suddenly chagrined and guilty.
The bus is a half-block away. Maybe she shouldn’t take it? “Oh,” T. says, worriedly, “I… That’s…”
But the woman knows her time is short, and keeps talking. “Not a word of it was true. All of you are so good to me — your people especially have always been the kindest to me.”
My people…? Oh. “I’m so glad we’re not like that pensioner,” T. says, gamely taking a compliment for every brown-skinned person (Californian? American? Female?) in the city. “Have a lovely evening.”
“Good luck to you,” D waves, and then we sit down on the bus.
And look at each other.
T says, “What…?”
“Pensioners. They get bus passes, and they think the handicapped seats are for them, and one of them told the woman to move, and she wouldn’t.”
“Oh,” T. says. The conversation makes a little more sense now.
“She needed to talk to someone,” D. continues. “She picked you.”
Maybe it’s not what you hear, it’s whether you listen. Whether or not you understand, sometimes maybe it’s all about having been there.
– D & T
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This brings to mind a conversation that I had with a colegue today. A friend of hers works at a local high school as the person in charge of the TA’s and “special needs” kids. Some of whom are violent and don’t know boundaries. She was telling me about one poor soul who needs to go in to this womans office and vent for a few minutes so that he can start his day. And by vent, I mean VENT! ” I HATE YOU! F**K!!!! I F**KING HATE YOU!” And after a few minutes of this, B looks up and say ” OK, are you done now? And he says “yup, see you tomorrow”. It amazes me at the strength of this woman to be able to sit there and not take it personally.
I applaud your ability to look properly dismayed and allow this faded pink haired lady to vent about the cheeky dRunken pensioners all the wile not really knowing what the heck she was talking about. Bald headed!
It’s like when you’re a child and you sing at nursing homes and the old folks ‘paw’ at you and it’s not until later in life that you realize they were just starved for human touch. Many are just as starved for companionable conversation. You were The Chosen Ear. She chose well.
Jackie: T. has told you that’s going to be our new favorite term, then? Bald-headed … it’s such a great insult!
Bean: Yay for you visiting us and commenting! Perhaps you’ll get a blog? 😉
Oh, how well I know that feeling as it always seems like here I am the chosen ear. I thought it was because of my long history as a mental health professional. Apparently not though…people do need to feel as if people will listen and are there for them. Sometimes they don’t care who that person is as long as they feel that they’re safe and sympathetic.
Seems as if these days everybody needs an ear to listen.