Prostration

School's back in. Great.

I realize this as the 116 bus pulls up and the early evening light strikes its windows, silhouetting a mass of standing teenagers inside. The ride isn't a long one, only ten to fifteen minutes or so, but after having already stood around in the humid mid-August heat for close to twenty minutes, the prospect of standing among a horde of cackling middle school boys and sing-songingly whining middle school girls, if only for a short time, is not an agreeable one. The bus ride back to my apartment is just slightly shorter than the time it takes to walk there, and for a second I consider the latter option, but only for a second. After all, if I can't put up with the small annoyance of having to commute home along with a minuscule fraction of South Korea's adolescent population, what kind of a man does that make me?

I step onto the bus and press my wallet against the transit-card scanner. Beep. As advertised, the bus is packed. Elderly women -- as well as a few elderly men and a mother clutching a child to her breast -- sit at the front. I cannot see the back. The middle is crammed with students wearing the standard, school-issued white shirts and gray pants/skirts. A black leather book bag juts out here, a gaudy, faux-designer handbag there.

The first thing I notice, though, is the smell. Bus drivers are expected to clean their own buses, inside and out, and this driver, it appears, has neglected both tasks for quite awhile. The bus possesses a musty odor, a stale air. It's apparent that the driver hasn't ventilated his vehicle in some time, and the flat odor mixed with the fetid stench of teenage boys creates a noxious atmosphere. But in this infernal heatwave, I'll take it over the oppressive shroud of humidity outside. It was supposed to rain today. Instead, the city is enveloped in the climatic equivalent of blue balls, a surprise party postponed by the end of the world.

The air conditioning rushes down from overhead vents, bathing my head and shoulders in coolness. I clutch a hand strap and look out the window as the 116 continues her route: a route that has changed little and will remain relatively unchanged even after I am dead.

The bus jostles its standing passengers, and like the ocean tides I sway loosely, peacefully, with each motion. It's a trick that develops over time, yielding to the random forces of public transportation. Just as a mainlander might -- mistakenly so -- instinctively sturdy his legs during his first time aboard a sea vessel, the layman to Korea might similarly overcompensate while riding a bus or subway. Me? I know better; although my adeptness at the skillful craft of bus riding came less from practice and more from evolution.

After passing the park, the bus stops at an intersection and the Bundang Babel Orchestra strikes up. Does Minhee really like him? That's so unfair! They can't do that! Call me at seven. Sne...be...cro...fuh... In the seat to my left, an old woman agitatedly looks back at the throng before turning forward and tapping her splayed fingers together like she's performing a shamanistic ritual. A greasy-haired boy looks at me and toys with his bangs like I'm a mirror.

I myself am staring at the window, transfixed. A hornet, perhaps also looking to cool down, hovers excitedly beyond the glass facing me. He has no business here, but he doesn't know that, and while I am initially comforted by our ostensible barrier, I grow incrementally nervous as Herr Hornet locates a centimeter-wide crack in the window which I was ignorant of and pushes his beady head into and his fat abdomen through before I can close the gap.

And now there is a gun pressed against my temple.

Suddenly a trapped animal desperate to escape from its cage, the hornet darts randomly within its prison, dodging swatting hands and the screams of man, woman, and child alike. For my part, I remain quiet but not calm. My heart is beating like a hummingbird's wings, my pulse racing like a Formula One car. This is torment. Oh, this is Hell.

Get me off of this bus.

At the next stop (two stops before my destination), I exit, not from the side door but from the front, shuddering inwardly and shaking outwardly, shouts of horror ringing in my ears. I have hitherto kept my composure, but now I must appear like a man insane, sweat streaming off my brow in torrents, my eyes bloodshot and manic.

I wait at the traffic light, balled fists in my pockets. One-two-three-four. Deep breath, deep breath. And then I see, at the crossing adjacent to me, a woman wearing skinny jeans pulled up to her torso, high heels on her slender feet, raven hair streaming down her back like an ink waterfall.

And suddenly it's OK.