The Love Bus

Three teen-aged girls sit across the bus from me. Their fingers twirl hair, poke at holes in tennis shoes, pull chewing gum into long strings to wrap around the tips of tongues.

The bus squeals to a stop. Without warning, a cute boy gets on and walks toward us with a smile that loosens the duct tape on my heart. As if on cue, all three girls start talking at once; and somehow, through an ancient intuition known only to teen-agers on the Carrick bus, they each know what the others are saying.

When I almost get used to that, they whisper in a huddle and suddenly tremble with shrieking giggles that make him jump. They accuse each other of liking him while calling each other queer. The mere mention of the word makes him sweat testosterone.

He thinks they're jagging him. Sadly enough, he'll never know they're acting like that because he is so cute. Love makes idiots of us all — like a young man who sees his beloved's sweater bouncing towards him and tries to impress her by spitting but ends up dribbling on himself.

It's easier to dribble on someone else. In ten years, he'll know some eyelash-batting piece of bitch isn't worth it. He'll drink yards of beer at Mario's and wiggle his tongue at women who will drop condoms on the bar as delicately as hankies — women who can even fake blushing. They'll learn that getting sex in a bar is kinda like laughing at your own joke in a large, empty room. But lust has no memory.

Ah, yes. Nothing like some teen-agers acting like I did, to bring out the cynic in me. I'm in severe need of tunes. I'll put Melissa Etheridge's tape, Yes I Am, in my headphones, her first release after she told the world she was a lesbian.

I still can't believe she's singing about women, not men, tearing her heart up. I guess there will never be equals in love. Whoever loves most loses regardless of gender. Funny. When I'm attracted to a man, I can't pull off the independent woman of the '90s facade they find so comforting.

I attended a local college where the most attractive man I've ever seen works. I'd start hyperventilating as I stepped off the bus; but as I walked up to school, I felt perfect Freudian happiness — being near him but having all that mystic distance in which the illusion of perfect love luxuriated.

I daydreamed about running into him, literally, first meeting and touching him in the same instant. We'd pause too long in each other's arms and stutter apologies. I'd be quick-witted but vulnerable — he'd be attentive but strong, like a couple in a Dan Fogelberg song. We'd speak briefly, staring at our feet, ashamed of the ridiculous smiles on our faces and say, "See you later, sorry." But that night, on separate porches, we'd feel each other at the end of every breeze that brushed our faces.

And it happened, I smashed into him. His blue eyes were as bright as cracked marbles and sparked against his silver hair. I can still feel the shock of my hands on his shoulders. Maybe that's why I bolted. Didn't even say "excuse me."

It was easy to imagine the certain embarrassment I avoided by not speaking. I would've sounded worse than a busload of cheerleaders. But I'd never been so scared of anyone. A coward dies a thousand deaths, indeed. That night, I wandered around Foodland so weak I wasn't even capable of a "no" to a free-sample lady with cocktail wieners. And my mouth was already so dry. I would've given anything to hear him call me psychotic just once....


The bus rattles through Mt. Oliver, where even the bars burn down. The cute young man's getting ready to get off the bus. The instant the center doors open, the girls bust out in a window-rattling chorus of giggles that makes me want to backhand them. But at least they waited 'till he could run out the door.

Melissa's song, "Talking To My Angel" plays. Is there anyone who isn't waiting to be completely understood by a perfect being? It may be unrealistic, but compromise is a risky business. It's easier to be with someone who isn't your dream-come-true than to feel the desperation and drive of obsessive love. But it's not fair to your lover because in the back of your head, you're still looking. You say things like "I need my space."

I believe in love at first sight. Pretty scary notion to have on the bus. Luckily it doesn't happen often. My therapist urged me to "date" instead of doing high-dives into the souls of madmen. "Dating" sounded like going out with people you're not wild about so you don't have sex at first. You eat food and see movies which provide the perfect opportunity for discourse consisting solely of strategic hints about what kind of person you want your date to think you are.

This could go on for years. I'd rather go to Catfish Hill in South Park, blast tunes and tell him horrible things about myself. I'll only have enough time to tell a fraction of the story and if he can't handle that, well, at least he'll be gone before I get used to sex again.

My therapist said I needed to know a man for awhile before I could love him. But the longer you know someone, the harder it is. He thought I trusted people too quickly to prove they weren't trustworthy. It always seemed to work, though. I love while I can — it's the only thing that makes me trust a man without making him earn it. But then I can't trust myself....

Almost at my stop, I turn off my headphones and say "excuse me" to the man sitting next to me. He unfolds his arms, exposing a "no muff too tuff" t-shirt. I step over him and don't look back so I don't have to watch him check out my ass.

No wonder I never forgot the man with voltage in his eyes. But he was a captivating man that I saw at an all-girl's school I went to so I wouldn't have to see men. It pissed me off. I refused to even look at him until I'd see his eyes and couldn't look away.

I have to believe he's married — the thought of him spending his nights alone drives me wild. It doesn't matter though, I don't need a man to define my existence. I'm busy discovering my bliss and reading The Road Less Traveled and The Prophet. I spend time nurturing myself, repeatedly telling myself that I'm alone by choice, that I'm better for it.

Loneliness has an irreversible quality to it — like the further you go out, even if you want to come back, you'll never be as close to the world as when you started. I guess it's this tragic quality that makes it feel somehow heroic.

No wonder the road is less traveled. Everyone on it is alone.