Revolt (9407 Is a Joke)

I don't like working on Saturdays. Frankly, I don't like doing anything on a Saturday, but certain things -- laundry, dishes, taking out the garbage/dead bodies -- need to be done. Despite the protestation of my younger self*, I'm a grown-ass man, I will acknowledge; there's shit I have to do. No complaints there. I have responsibilities. I can't lay about all the time waiting for someone else to clean up my mess...most of the time. And if something needs to be done (changing light bulbs, fetching out-of-reach materials, opening pickle jars), well, baby, I'm your man. Word to Larry Underwood.

I joke, but the truth is that I do a whole lot more. Monday to Frigga, I'm on the grind like take your pick. Come Friday eve, though, all I want to do is unwind, stay up late, get a little you-know, and watch teevee 'till the test pattern comes on.

But I can't. Because I hafta work on Saturdays.

And never have I complained about it, until now. Again, I have responsibilities. Life could be damn harder. Life could be a lot harder, certainly.

But that 9407 bus, man.

See, I live in a certain area of Bundang that is as far as Charles away from a subway stop. If I lived within walking distance of Migeum Station or Jeongja Station, we'd be cool breeze. But I don't. I have to walk my ass 5-10 minutes -- depending on the alignment of the stars, aka my departure time in relation to the rhythm of the traffic lights -- down to the bus stop. To catch the 9407. And that motherfucker is as unpredictible as a knee after microsurgery.

Sometimes I wait no more than ten minutes. Sometimes...a little longer.

"A little longer" was the order of the day two Saturdays ago, and the last one, and despite my Yeoman-like work ethic, I begged off after waiting 50 fucking minutos for that bus from hell.

A man is not a piece of fruit, 9407 bus.

Boo-fucking-hoo, right? Things are tough all over. But peep it, getting there is only half the battle, and it's the easy part. Try catching that fucker back to the 'Dang on a Saturday night at 7:30. To paraphrase Egg Shen, it won't be easy.

Word to Hubie Brown: you stand outside in the heat/cold; traffic is at a standstill; you wait, then wait some more; you consider walking 10 minutes to catch the subway, knowing that would mean another 20-to-30-minute wait to catch a bus home afterwards; and you're a man: you're resilient; no fucking bus is going to make you tap out. So you stand waiting, watchful like the eyes of a hawk; waiting for deliverance; waiting for the 9407.

Like Job, you're being tested, you're convinced. You wait some more. You're not impatient, but damn that infernal bus is taking its sweet time, isn't it?

Finally, mercifully, it arrives. The driver opens the door, and you hop on. Or try to, because the 9407 is so jam-packed with passengers that you can barely nudge yourself in so that the driver can close the door. You're touching glass like Robert Ridgely in Boogie Nights.

(But I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything, Jack.)

Barreling down the highway at break-neck speed, you realize just how close to the reaper you are. But you got on the 9407, right? You knew the rules of the game before you hopped on. You know there's nothing to it but to do it. And so you do it, because there's no other ride to take you back, nothing else to take you home.

So you ride. You're a passenger.

The 9407's the only ride you got. And you leave it up to fate.

You ride. Because you can't get off if you don't get on.

Tomorrow: Resist

* He's lampin' next to Tony, in my mouth.