Boxed Out

This morning I was boxed out. Literally.

I was waiting patiently at my bus stop (the one situated right in front of my building, my home, where I have lived gently and quietly for 2 years now) and was standing amongst other people, whom I presume were my neighbors, community members, other fellow commuters. Meaning, we'd all treat each other with respect seeing as we all shared common space, common neighborhood and common bus routes.

Boy, was I wrong.

While standing at the stop, a woman had her haunches set squarely in front of the 2-foot area in which she anticipated the bus was going to stop, placing her RIGHT in front of the door when it opened. She was crouching. Seriously.

She looked over her shoulder not once, not twice, but five times to ensure that no one was coming near her "claimed real estate." God forbid I stand within 3 linear feet from her. She inched closer to the curb to avoid me intruding.

When the bus eventually rolled to a stop, and opened its doors, she was in fact right in front. Good for you, lady! Way to be, lady!

She boards, and proceeds to take out 1 rumpled dollar, 1 wrinkly transit pass, 1 Walgreens receipt, 1 hairpin, 1 spearmint, and several handfuls of change. To get her bus ticket, her transfer, the return voucher, her voting registration card, her unborn grandchild's return trip voucher, etc.

You get the drift. She took forever.

Meanwhile, she has her crouch going on. I mean it, she was boxing us out.

Let me segue to further explain the geographic dynamics of this situation: the entire design of the new buses is one that should allow the Chicago Card users to board more quickly, in the left side of the door (it's called the GO LANE!), while the slower more annoying cash/old-fashioned-card-users can take their sweet time on the right side with the machine that sounds like R2-D2 with indigestion while being stared at by the marginally unfriendly bus driver.

This use of efficient bus design was utterly impossible. Her stance wouldn't allow it.

So I waited patiently, while the line of unsuspecting people behind me (without a first-row glimpse of the boxing-out-action) stood on the sidewalk.

She finally finishes, I take a very cautious and patient step forward to finally tap my speedy-efficient-fully-paid-up Chicago Card on the reader, and she raises her elbow at me as she walks toward the back. Elbow. At me. In my face, to avoid me getting anywhere close to her.

It was inches from my head.

Now, look. I played basketball for something like 1200 hours a year, for 14 years. While I wasn't the meanest, or the biggest, or the toughest, my entire job was to use my legs to BOX PEOPLE OUT while using my bony-ass ELBOWS to double the protection. I know her game.

But come on. On the bus? In the morning? Before I've had my coffee?

Where was Coach Teague when I needed him, screaming wacky Southern phrases of encouragement like "don't let those chickens run around you like they own your coop! Be the wolf!" I could have used him.

Boxed out on the bus. It was a disgrace.