I'm standing at my typical downtown bus shelter when a skinny (read: crack-addled) woman walks up, stands behind me, and starts touching my shoulders and hair. I'm now in a precarious position: I don't like it when the crazies touch me, but ... well, she's crazy. I figure it's better to engage and hope she stops than to ignore her or try to get her to stop by voicing displeasure. So we engage in polite small talk, and Crazy McCrazypants stops touching me. She tells me she has two pairs of long underwear on. I'm not sure I needed to know that, but it's a typical encounter.
And then a bus pulls up. Crazy hitches up her jeans and tries to get on, but the bus driver, a very large man, yells, "NO. NOT YOU. GET BACK."
And it's on.
Profanities are exchanged, and McCrazypants decides that the door closing in her face means she's not getting on the bus, and shuffles back to the bus shelter. Her face gets hard as she tells me that she once assaulted that bus driver.
"I got an aggravated assault on my record, babygirl. I needed mort-gage money, babygirl. And I just wanted some money, and he got up in my face. So I pulled out my .38. He said he won't let me ride no more."
The best part? She sounded surprised.