One of the first things that happened to me upon my re-arrival to Southern California was an attack of the deja-new. Not unlike deja-vu, deja-new strikes randomly, firing off memories left and right when you rediscover a place after being away for three years. It's not like I really forgot, it's more like while my back was turned everyone moved things around just a tad, like bad Helen-Keller-ish practical joke.
I decided the best way to reacquaint myself with the old hometown would be to take a lot of day trips on public transportation to familiar landmarks. I decided this because our belongings were still in transit, as was our car, and our daily entertainment was centered around a very fuzzy reception of "Regis and Kelly" on a minature TV.
Nothing should ever center around Regis or Kelly, no matter how mercifully out of focus it is. They are inhumanly perky. They frighten me.
One thing I'd forgotten about during my time away was the quantity and quality of.... let's be nice and call them "colorful street residents". Or we could just cut to the chase and call them "bums". In Hawaii, there are relatively few street people. I guess it's a math thing, proportionally. Less population = less population wearing a bedsheet and a tutu pissing on the mailbox at the red light.
Suddenly they were everywhere. At the bus stops, on the bus, on the trolley, in the fountains. Ranting, raving, glowering, scowling, babbling, begging.
And I forgot the first rule of dealing with transients- no eye contact. Ever.
So as I sat on the bus, looking forward to going home after a long day trudging around the zoo, I smiled at the man who muttered an apology for bumping against me as he walked up the aisle of the bus. He smiled back with all the teeth he could muster (3). And then he sat down next to me.
This man had issues. He had fashion issues, as evidenced by his layered wardrobe, giving him that trendy Michelin Man look. He had personal space issues, meaning he had no problem scooting over against me until we were almost sharing a thighbone. He had hygene issues too, at least from where I was sitting downwind.
"Lookit here" he sputtered at me, and held out a shaky, crooked, filthy finger. "Dis my holy finner".
"Uh... what?" I stupidly replied. (Rule two- don't respond)
"My finner. See? Jesus lives in my finner. I gots a Jesus Finner. G'wan, touch it."
"No, no thank you, that's okay."
"It'll give you a blessin', girl. It got power. It's my Jesus Finner."
"No, it's fine, not really necessary."
"TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER! TOUCH IT! TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER!!"
On the other side of me, the GM1 was helpless with laughter. Chivalry is dead.
The JesusFinger man got off the bus at the next stop, pausing on his way out the door to wave it over us in a general blessing move.
I waited three days before I ventured out on my next mass transit attempt.
And that went fine.... until the Crazed Vietnamese Violinist got on the trolley.
That's another story for another time, though.
Despite it all, or maybe a little because of it, I'm glad to be back.
I'm really glad, though, that my car finally got here.