iPod, Real Headphones Obviate Need for Bus Suicide

When it comes to technological gizmos, I'm not much of an enthusiast. I have a computer with Internet because modern life is too inconvenient to navigate without one; I have a cellphone, grudgingly, because it's the cheapest way I can make and get the calls I need; and I will sooner take up scrimshaw than shackle myself with a goddamned Blackberry or iPhone like every other DC office chattel who cherishes these electronic yokes.

But when Apple came out with its teeny, tiny iPod shuffle a couple years ago, I caved. Something the size of a matchbook that can hold a dozen albums worth of music? For $79? Where do I sign up?

So I put in my order before the new shuffle even came out. And for a while, I loved the novelty of so much music in such a handy little device. But then physical reality reasserted itself.

Because the ear pieces that come standard with an iPod almost negate the very concept of music as a pleasurable experience. They emit a tinny, buzzy tone, with no bass, and not very much treble either. Apparently Apple developed them to produce frequencies that only dogs can hear, except when you turn the volume up all the way, when they become all too audible to human ears. I heard that when water-boarding was outlawed at Guantanamo, the CIA switched over to interrogating terrorists by forcing them to listen to Kelly Clarkson on a maxed out iPod Touch with standard Apple ear buds.

And -- here the fault is mine -- I have never owned a decent pair of real headphones to pair with something like my oh-so-carryable iPod. This was a glaring oversight on my part, which I only very recently rectified with a pair of low-end Sony studio-quality phones, for the princely sum of $25. And suddenly, my iPod is worth owning. Not a moment too soon, either; if I hadn't dropped that $25 at Best Buy and dug my iPod out of storage this morning, I would not be here right now now to tell you about it. I would have killed myself while waiting for the 8:14 express bus to work this morning.

I ride the same bus to and from work every day, especially now that I've moved to an apartment located conveniently across the street from the bus stop. Because this is an express line with only a handful of buses during morning and evening rush hour, you tend to see the same faces every day. And mostly these faces belong to placid, mild-mannered commuters such as myself, who really like the fact that the bus requires half the time that the Metro ride would take, for about ten cents extra. We are mostly a quiet, unobtrusive lot. We smile and nod to one another; the more gregarious even carry on quiet conversations. In short, a bunch of decent office-bound creatures trying to get to and from our boring jobs as humanely as possible.

All of us, except one strident, shrill, oblivious wretch of a middle-aged woman who sometimes rides my bus. Without putting too fine a point on it, I hate this woman with unabashed passion. She is, without question, the most horrid human being I encounter in my day-to-day life, bar none.

She is the sort of person who must complain, loudly, about EVERYTHING, to ANYBODY who happens to be within earshot, myself included. If I encounter her at the bus stop in the summer, she tries to bitch to me about how hot it is; in the winter, how cold it is. She has demanded of me no fewer than 11 million times, in her harsh, nasal voice, "Are you waiting for the 11Y!?" You would think, after seeing me get on the 11Y bus 11 million times after seeing me waiting at a bus stop that says "11Y" she might put two and two together, but apparently she is too oblivious and self-centered to remember another human being for more than three consecutive seconds. On one of these occasions, after I affirmed that, Yes, just like every other 10,999,999 times you've asked me this, I am in fact waiting for the 11Y, she had the temerity to intone, in her sniveling, needy way, "It should come soon, right?" To which I calmly responded, "I'm sorry, but how in the name of Zeus' butthole do I know where, in this city of 45,000 motor vehicles, when accidents and presidential motorcades routinely stop traffic, the bus is?"

Last Friday after work, this woman, whom for convenience' sale I'll call Satan, clambered on to my bus just as I was thinking "Yes, Satan must have gotten the 5:05 today!" And for five solid minutes, she proceeded to badger the driver, and every single passenger, as to "Which bus this is." As in, "Is this the 5:05, or the 5:25, or the 5:40?" Never mind that this was the 5:25, right on time. Never mind that this woman rides these buses every day of her hideous life and should know the schedule. Never mind that the schedule is conveniently posted online. Never mind that SHE'S ALREADY ON THE BUS, WHICH IS ALL THAT MATTERS! For reasons of her own obsessive edification, Satan must know, NOW, which particular bus she is on, and she will not rest until she has withered the soul of every single occupant with her insipid prattle.

Suffice to say, this is not the sort of person whom Anton Chigurh would have offered a coin flip before deciding whether to kill her with his cattle gun.

So you can well imagine my reaction this morning, when who should saunter up to the stop, but Satan in all her frazzled, Monday morning glory. And when she proceeded to commence telling a fellow rider about some infraction that some occupant of her condo building had committed in the building's laundry room, in painstaking detail (among her other charming qualities, this woman despises everyone), I started reaching for my cyanide pill. On a beautiful Monday morning such as this, with the sun shining, the cool breeze blowing, and a long day of cubicle time ahead of me, this outpouring of petty, strident bile was just too much to bear. I was just putting the finishing mental touches on my epitaph, when I remembered: "My headphones! My iPod! Salvation!" Moments later, the soothing, dulcet tones of "Anything But This" blared in my ears, obliterating all other sound. And so I could go on living.

Thank you, Apple. Thank you, Sony.

And lest anyone think the hot, blinding rage Satan inspires in me is just a sign of what a crank I am, I received the following e-mail from my girlfriend, who rides the bus every morning with me, while I was writing this:

"That lady is horrible. Having had to listen/observe her nonsense for 25 minutes, I can say that I hate her. I left my stupid Ipod in my drawer here and I'm still mad at myself for it."