Last night, returning from a weekend stay at my mother-in-law's, I found myself on the last bus to Upper Montclair, the 11:45 PM 66. Always a strange place, Port Authority becomes an even stranger place at that hour. Factor in a concert, a Yankees or Mets game, or some other event guaranteed to launch thousands of drunk morons into the streets, and you never know what you're going to get.
Among my fellow riders last night:
- A middle-age man who had imaginary conversations on his cell phone, speaking in a 10-year-old girl's falsetto.
- A drunk and reeling girl in a bright-purple party dress, who boarded the bus barefoot, her heels in one hand and a piece of pizza in the other.
- A pale, creepy guy upset that the driver wouldn't take his expired ticket. "I've been sick for the last three weeks," the guy said with some authority, as if that was a winning argument guaranteed to bring the debate to a close. When the driver inquired -- sensibly, I thought -- what his being sick had to do with the expiration date on the ticket, the guy berated the driver for being insensitive to the ill. "Oh, you've never been sick in your life, huh? Well lucky you!"
It was one of those (rare) nights when I sympathized with my driver. As much abuse as Team DeCamp dishes out, they take a good amount, too.