Baby, You Can Drive My Bus

I love The Beatles (in case you didn't catch the oh-so-subtle tribute to them in tonight's title, I'll just state it outright.) I do not love creepy store clerks who hit on me while selling me my monthly bus pass. As you may already know, public transit has become a really important part of my life. Part of it is because it gets me from my apartment to my campus and back again. Part of it is just so I can lovingly remember the days of being crammed between a fat drunk kid about to vomit and a couple who may or may not be having sex on my way to stats class. (By the way Rutgers, stay classy.)

So last week, as I bid January a fond farewell, I made my way to the nearest vendor of monthly bus passes, located in the train station-turned-mini-mall near my apartment. I was really proud of myself for being on top of things and purchasing my ticket before the months even changed. I was also really cold and badly in need of chocolate. (Which, as usual, bears no pertinence to the story at hand. But it seemed like I should mention it for all the fellow cold-hating chocolate lovers out there.) I go up to the window and clearly request a one-zone monthly pass. The man behind the window smiles creepily and says something to the effect of, "You don't want me to give it to you, two zones?"

...Well, golly. If I weren't already taken, that offer would have swept me off my feet for sure. Nothing gets me going quite like a dash of badly-orchestrated sexual innuendo surrounding a bus ticket purchase.

I already knew it was going to be a special day. I looked at him and said, "No. I just need a bus pass for one zone. That's 49 [dollars], right?"

"Ohhh you want it, 49 zones?!" Now, I'm no master of anatomy. In fact when it comes to science, I'm that kid that is perpetually riding the little bus. But I'm pretty sure that's not even humanly possible.

Anyway, he must have eventually realized I wasn't feeling it. I paid, took my bus pass, and left, to start yet another strange day in the city I'm currently calling home. Cheers, Mr.Creepy. Cheers.