Pretty Woman, apparently.

“I can’t believe this shit happens to you.”  So said my roommate after I regaled her with the story of my recent bus experience. 
 
A few Saturdays ago was one of those superbly fabulous days, the kind we Seattleites live for (and constantly remind ourselves of in order to help fight SAD). Sunny and crisp, you can feel spring and summer around the corner.  Pike Place Market employees were even handing out daffodils downtown, ushering in spring – it was almost an ironic, over-the-top spoof of paradise.  

This particular day : lovely :: Jersey Shore : sheer and utter trash (that I have to watch)

(Did I just reawaken your fear of the Analogy portion of the SATs? And/or your fear of Snooki?)

I had just gotten my hair colored, was wearing new sunglasses (what up, sale bin at the Gap!), and had quite a spring in my step as I headed to the bus. 

I arrived at 3rd and Pike – one of the most notoriously dangerous/shady bus stops in the city, even mid-day – and was promptly confronted by, not only a few drug deals, but by a bare ass, just hanging out of a pair of grey sweats.  It was inappropriate, at best. (I believe the person was homeless, so I won’t belabor the point.  It wasn’t good or funny.)  Undeterred, I moved a few feet away, and waited. 

Route 3 arrived, and five or six people boarded with me.  I had just sat down when, suddenly, a disheveled man looked right at me and, I kid you not, said, “Julia Roberts is on this bus!?”  It was more of a statement than a question, but the question was there nonetheless.  He bee-lined for me, and continued (at which point I could smell the stale vodka and cigarettes). “Oh my gosh! Julia Roberts?!  I can’t believe this.”  He extended his hand to shake; I shook it, and gave him a curious “you’re funny” smile.  Now, I’m not going to deny I looked good. But…I don’t look a thing like Julia Roberts. 

Expect maybe in her Vivian, Pretty Woman phase.  (Because of the hair, not the whole hooker thing.)

I did have aforementioned sunglasses on, but still.  Just when I thought he was  done mistaking me for the highest paid actress in Hollywood* he shocked me with, “Will you sign my chest?” and proceeds to reveal his entire large, hairy stomach and chest.  A good 18 inches from my face.  

By this point, the entire bus was chuckling at the absurdity of it all  (or full on laughing out loud, like the teenaged kid behind me); I politely declined his tempting offer.

He angrily skulked away, and over the next twenty minutes, Mr. Sign My Chest proceeded to have conversations with everyone in the back of the bus.  The best of which was with the young, seemingly straight-laced guy behind me (he was wearing a sport-coat, and not in a hipster way).  Mr. Chest asked him if he had cigarettes or booze (both of which the teenager declined – he was only 18), and then shocked me by complimenting the boy on his hair, saying “It’s very 2011 of you.” What does that even mean? The best snippet was when Mr. Chest started recommending under-21 clubs to the young man. “There is that club…near the EMP…I don’t remember what it’s called  [oh but I do, and it's now closed] but it’s full of hot girls. Not white or black girls, but Asian girls.”

Without skipping a beat, this blazer-clad, seemingly WASPy teenager said, completely straight-faced, “I like Asian girls.”

I nearly lost it. Best. Bus. Ride. Ever.

Later, Mr. Chest exited, but not before he murmured a few more choice words my way, at which point I laughed.  Blazer Boy got off on top of Queen Anne with me, and as we parted ways, he turned around and yelled “Have a great day, Julia!” 

I laughed to myself the whole, beautiful walk home.

*Not a fact.