whiskey vomit

Reading the short story by Jimmy Santiago Bacca in class this week reminds me of something that happens on the way home from class...the wonders of riding in unairconditioned city buses on 90 degree days.

Those of you in the know can probably relate to what I'm about to say:

Generally, riding the bus ain't so bad, really. Trimet's pretty decent as far as things go...lord knows I've seen worse. And I love having the time to meditate on the meaning of life, read books of my choice, and work on poems. But there are the downsides of course, as with any public accomodation. One of them is that combining the masses with heat makes for a most unpleasant sensory experience: bus funk.

On the unairconditioned bus, even with all the windows open, you end up sweating profusely. All your clothes stick mercilessly--to your skin and to the seat. You dread brushing up against everyone else. Eventually a critical mass of competing body odors coalesces (combined stale smells of long term cigarette smoking, effects of various perfumes and alcohol consumption exudes from hopelessly dilated pores), overwhelms the defenses of the senses, and induces grinding clamor of nausea. Airconditioned buses fare little better, as the theoretical benefits of airconditioning are vastly overwhelmed by the force of combined body heat of writhing middle school kids and a veritable legion of carbon dioxide-spewing cell phone users. It seems, in fact, that any movement whatsoever induces a chain reaction of accelerating heat.

Yes, riding the bus to PSU and home hasn't been the most delightful experience. I'll be grateful for the relief of the Pacific Northwest rains that should be coming to obliterate the last of these sun-shiny days.