Yesterday, I started a jaunt about town by walking to my neighborhood bus stop. A man was standing there, and I offered a chipper, “Good morning!” He didn’t reply, only looked at me like I’m strange, but I am strange so sometimes that happens.

We waited in silence, but not for long, before this man turned and glared at me and said, “What are you doing, bruh?”

What I was doing was waiting for a bus, so I brilliantly replied, “Waiting for a bus.” What I was thinking was, I hate it when people call me ‘bruh’.

“No, bruh, you’re eyeing me. Quit eyeing me, bruh.”

I said nothing, assessing how mentally ill this gent might be. In doing so, of course, I was unavoidably eyeing him.

“You’re still eyeing me, bruh.”

“I generally look at people when they’re talking to me.”

“No, bruh. Don’t be eyeing me.”

On a 1-10 scale of kooks, I pegged this guy a 7. Not too nuts, but nuts. Ordinary clothes. Ordinary look. Possibly ethnic, he could’ve been anything from Mexican to Middle Eastern or just plain white but needing a shower. He had a dull face, and a glare that wasn’t savage but sure wasn’t good morning.

“I’m waiting for a bus,” I said slowly. “Not eyeing you.”

“No, you be walking all around behind me, bruh, checking me out or something.”

At this, I actually said “Hmmm” aloud, a eureka moment.

See, I don’t like standing, so when waiting for a bus I wander a few steps in one direction, then a few steps in another direction. It’s a habit, always done it, but I suddenly realized that to someone jittery, paranoid, or vulnerable, my walking around might seem suspect.

Women always need to be alert around strangers, and I flashed back to the times I’d wandered while waiting at that same stop with a random woman. My wandering might’ve made them uneasy, and I’d never known. Decided that in the future I’ll stand more and wander less, when I’m not alone at a bus stop. Also decided to explain this to the wingnut.

“I’m a wanderer,” I said. “I don’t like standing,” but there was no further explaining.

“What does that mean, bruh, ‘I’m a wanderer’?”

“Means I have restless feet.”

“What are you talking about, bruh? Why are you walking all around and eyeing me?”

“I am waiting for a bus,” I said — and said it again and again over the next ten minutes or so. Our bus continued not arriving, and he continued complaining that I’d been eyeing him, and calling me ‘bruh’? My replies dwindled to maybe one every third ‘bruh’, mostly me saying again and again, “I’m waiting for a bus.”

I tried different tactics, too. Tried being reasonable, tried apologizing, tried saying nothing, and tried smart-assery.

Here’s me being reasonable, a second and third time:

Here’s me being apologetic:

Here’s me saying nothing, flashing a two-finger peace sign, then looking at the bushes across the street:

Telling me what I’d ‘better’ do sounded more like a schoolmarm than a threat, but I don’t like being schoolmarmed, and his lecture wasn’t winding down, so I moved on to smart-assery.

I don’t remember all our empty dialogue, but my favorite quip was:

Here’s a lengthier exchange, in order and verbatim:

“Quit eyeing me, bruh.”

“I’m opening a dossier.”

To my sincere surprise, he seemed to know the word, and said, “You better not, bruh. You better not.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Add it to the file.”

“Bruh, you don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you’re a paranoid schizo. I know you’re looking for enemies.”

“Bruh, you better get off my back and shut up.”

“I’m waiting for a bus.”

“Then why are you eyeing me, bruh?”

“Still waiting for a bus, and I’d prefer waiting in silence. All you gotta do is stop yapping—

“Bruh, I will beat you.”

That was the only time he directly threatened me. I paused, long enough to choose my words carefully. I’m no action hero, but if there’s violence I’ll try to do some damage. My hand was in my pocket, holding a can of pepper spray, and I was in a strangely don’t-give-a-damn mood.

He took my silence as fear. “All quiet now, bruh? Got nothing to say now, bruh?”

But I was skeptical that he was a danger. He’d made no move toward me, and I had the pepper-spray with my finger on the trigger. So I stupidly shrugged and raised my eyebrows, as if to say but not saying, Are you all talk?

He hesitated. Had raising my eyebrows threatened him? Had it turned the situation around, and made me the dangerous one? He seemed to think so, though that hadn’t been my intent.

“Keep your distance, bruh,” he said.

We were standing on the sidewalk, about six feet apart, so I took a step backward and asked, “Is this enough distance?”

“No, bruh, behind the crack.”

A big, visible crack was in the sidewalk a foot or so behind me, so I stepped further back, behind it. Said nothing, but I was eyeing him, and shrugged again, still fingering my mace.

“Yeah, and stay there, bruh. And quit eyeing me.”

“I’m waiting for a bus, and I don’t give a damn about you.”

“Then quite eyeing me, bruh.”

“Quit talking to me, and I’ll look at something else.”

“You’re still eyeing me, bruh.”

“We’ve been over this.”

On and on. At one point, I opened my eyes extra wide, wide as they could open without falling out of the sockets, but he didn’t say anything more than, “Stop eyeing me, bruh,” again.

Was I an ass? Yeah. Was I in danger? I don’t think so. Live in the city, ride the bus, and you learn to spot the difference between ordinary-crazy and worrisome-crazy. Then again, it’s been a long while since I’ve seen worrisome-crazy, and maybe I wouldn’t know it until it stabs me.

I continued eyeing that guy, and he continued telling me to stop eyeing him, bruh, until the bus finally came, and pulled into our stop.

Being old and sorta slow, I always gesture for other folks to get on before me, and I gave this guy that gesture, bowing, with my hand rolling toward the door. He said no more, boarded quietly, paid no fare, and walked toward the back of the bus.

I considered following him, sitting across the aisle from him. That might’ve made a better story, but my luck had been good so far, why push it?

Instead I took a sideways seat up front, only occasionally and discretely glancing back at that guy who’d given me my longest and dumbest conversation of 2025, so far, and called me ‘bruh’ at least a hundred times. I hate being called ‘bruh’.

1/16/2025

Transit Takes

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