Bus, bus, busted

It’s 7 p.m. and behind the family’s wash door, a young man is standing stark naked in front of the mirror.  The trail from the door reveals his engineered trousers, his Joe Boxers, soiled socks, his mean Airwalks and a pathetic smirk painted on his face.

 I should know.  Not because I was next in line to use the john with my bladder threatening to burst, wondering who in beep’s name could be hogging the darn loo for half an hour. Nah, not because I got a good peep at the keyhole, slammed the door open and saw what he was up to. I just know.

 The man was I.

 Before you accuse me of anything – okay, I can see your thought balloon screaming Pervert! Pervert! Pervert !– lemme bring on my defense.

 Bits of facts add pieces to my puzzle.

 Rewind:  5:30 p.m., The Bus.  I usually commute on Fridays, and being hail-the-gods-it’s-weekend, everyone’s rushing home to prepare for the evening’s soiree.  I rushed from the gym all trashed up from slaving to the sadistic whims of my instructor.  Hailing a cab at Edsa is next to impossible and lining up the loooong queue at the mall’s taxi bay will take an eternity. Prudence strikes (or was it the stingy in me?): take the bus.

 It didn’t help that the drizzle that was hinting a wet night ahead is now cussing cats and dogs.  On the bus, it’s a game of paws and fangs for coveted seats.  Seat grabbing is never my thing – I’m always a lousy loser in Trips to Jerusalem.  Just when I see a vacant seat, some jackass would bushwhack a grab ahead of me, but I’ve managed to land a seat in the middle aisle.  Whew.

 Blame the scout in me, but when the sight of a preggy inching her way to a crowded bus to find a seat strikes you, you just abandon your seat and offer it to her – lest you be accused of child abuse (the baby could suffer fetal battery with those thuds and bumps) or let your guilt eat you up.

 So there I was, in the middle of Edsa, amidst a crowded throng of strangers with the air reeking of armpit juice and a blast of "Ako si Mr. Suave…oooh…grabeh…" threatening to liquefy my ear deposits.  Drat, the whole bus sang along! Sigh, the pits, no less.

 My horoscope must’ve read disaster.  A lady – big, fat and unreasonably ugly – I’m not exaggerating nor am I condescending – think Whitney (Tyson, not Houston) in Aubrey-emote mode, was behind me making my ride a little more "comfortable" with her, uhm, mammaries. You’d think I had it good and safe – just in case the bus tumbles to a screeching halt, I have a pair of air bags to cushion the bump.  It could be a welcome experience, I know, but it’s an unlikely marriage of feeling good and seeing bad – the combination is a lethal mix that produces mental puke and lotsa molar grinding. She was the oldest vamp I ever laid eyes on.  Think Victor Wood’s ex. Think Dr. Wow. Some women age graciously, others just hang on, really haaaang on.

 A pair of airbags on my back and hard pecs of muscles in front of me.  I must be in some streak of luck.  A boulder of a man stood before me and with a heave of his day’s collected breath, he unleashed a friendly ‘hi.’  A stranger’s ‘hi’ is a welcome gesture, but when it comes with a wink and a heavy come-hither look, you get suspicious.  When Mr. Friendship wets his lips and pouts, the suspicion was confirmed.

 I would prefer a verbal introduction, but Swarzenegger has a different idea.  He was spelling his name – with his butt – in front of me, more appropriately on my front.  It’s the worst case of action spells better than words.  Believe me, given the right mood and a slightly impaired judgment, I could be obliging, but not like this.  Never like this.

I’ve busted the bus, threw in a handful of unprintables and squinted my eyes for my vaporizing dagger looks, but then again I was ‘low bat’ so nothing came out of it.

 The minute I got home, I hit the showers.  After four suds that shrunk the Ivory to the size of a booger, I proceeded to my fifth.  I’m all wrinkled up, but I still need to wash up.

Excuse me, I need another shower.