I didn't recognize Muttonchops McGee when he first got on the bus. Actually, I think I almost recognized him, but couldn't quite place him -- red-haired guy with an Edwardian kind of visage to him -- somehow, familiar. I realized once he sat down that it was Muttonchops McGee, but he'd shaved off his signature 'chops. It was his thing. He was a regular feature on the Hyde Park bus. He'd habitually grow his hipster hair out very big, would have these massive muttonchops going, and then at some arbitrary point in the year, he'd get shorn like a sheep and would repeat the process all over again.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
