consequential strangers

Book: The White Tiger

Bus: 6:02; #56

Pages read: 0

He's becoming too friendly. This is a bad thing. There is this guy that takes the bus in the morning. I used to call him "Construction guy with ear buds and coffee," now I call him Eric. See what I mean; problem. I know Eric is a construction supervisor for the city of Portland. I know he has children. I know he has air conditioning in his house. I know he has been to the Grand Canyon. I know TOO much! I see this guy pretty much every morning. Interacting with him is something I try to avoid. I walk slowly to the bus stop hoping the bus will come by the time I reach it, or if I am there and see him walking up, I will start digging through my bag as if I am desperately trying to find something. But sometimes I am sitting duck. Usually the weather is the topic of "conversation." We live in Portland for Christ's sake, how many different ways can you talk about how badly rain sucks? I do not want to talk about the rain. I do not want to talk about anything. It violates the rules.

Bus stop etiquette is simple: greet each other with a nod and/or a smile. The number one rule (second being don't look them in the eyes) is never ask names. Once you know a rider's name there is a level of intimacy that cannot be undone. You are then obligated to greet and talk to this person. Don't get me wrong, I like consequential strangers, they do provide a sense of comfort and community, I just like mine to be silent.

I must Look Like a Compass

Book: The White Tiger
Bus: 44; 2:58 p.m.
Pages read: 107 - 115

This is beyond coincidence. While waiting for the bus an Asian woman asked me for directions to a bus stop. Well, "ask" is a generous, it was more like "charadeded" me the question. I spent several minutes directing (charading again: pointing and motioning) to a bus stop about 3 blocks away. She is probably still wandering around Portland.

Then, once I was on the bus, this elderly woman was hovering next to me looking a bit perplexed. She kept looking at me as if ready to ask a question. Taking the cue, I asked her if she needed help and it turns out she did. She wanted to know if she was on the right bus to take her to the Jewish center. I was proud of myself for knowing where the Center was, b/c it is next to the eye-catching store "Everything Jewish," so I was able to confidently confirm she was on the right bus.

While not nearly as inept as the direction-givers in Delhi, I hate giving directions. First, I kind of panic when someone asks me. I feel like I am on Jeopardy and have to hit the buzzer and answer immediately. It's too much pressure. As a result I end up giving directions and then ralizing after the unknowing lost soul is gone and I take 30 seconds to actually think about it,that I gave the wrong name of a street or something. I then feel completely responsible for this person and blame myself for their future misfortunes (divorce, failing out of college, etc.).

Any way...

Balram explains that "Servants need to abuse other servants. It's been bred into us, the way Alsatian dogs are bred to attack strangers. We attack anyone who's familiar." pg 109. So much for sticking together. Sounds like a fraternity at hazing time.

When Ashok and Pinky Tuscadaro move to Delhi they take an apartment in a large building. Balram's new home is the basement of the building with the other chauffeurs. He is on call 24 hours a day and shares a room with audibly-chewing cockroaches that spend the night leaping onto his mosquito net. Good thing he has that khaki uniform or he might start to question his improved status in the world.

And...Ashok and the Mongoose start their descent into the world of political bribery which it's pretty clear will not end well.

Connecting with Balram

Book: The White Tiger
Bus #56; 6:35 a.m.
Pages: 0

Have you seen the movie "Speed"?

This morning's bus driver has.

A few hundred feet past where the bus picked me up there was an unexpected detour. The usual route is a direct shot onto Barbur Blvd (a main road into downtown), it takes about 30 seconds. The detour was a much longer ride down a very windy (typical SW Portland) road which takes about 8 minutes (at least).

We made it in 2.

If a deranged technological genius had rigged the bus so that it would explode if it went slower than 50mph, we would have been safe. I audibly gasped when we swerved into the on-coming lane just before a blind curve to avoid smashing into a truck slowing to a stop. As I tried to regain my composure, I looked around at the other passengers. They all looked completely at ease; I was alone in my terror. At that moment I felt a kinship with Balram. Just as I was the only one scared of dying in an out of control bus, little Balram was the only one in his school scared of the lizard living in the cupboard. My fellow passengers were Balram's classmates, perfectly at ease with the giant lizard prowling their classroom, and I am Balram.
I didn't read this morning, b/c I left my book by my computer. It wouldn't have mattered if I did have it, b/c I was too terrified to take my eyes off the road.