We Are Ants

A misanthrope and a bus should not be mixed in any sane world. But last Saturday I found myself, sleep-deprived and grumpy waiting for the bus into town. The bus stop was populated by an odd mix: women with buggies so large they could probably withstand a mortar attack, an old Chinese gentleman busy coughing up the contents of his lungs onto the pavement in front of me, and several students, plugged into to iPods and mobile phones. When the bus arrived, the driver stopped so the door was directly in front of me, so I boarded first. This was my initial faux-pas, and the women with the buggies snorted at my back as I paid the driver.
My second assault on good manners came as I sat down. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I am not a small man, and the world is not geared towards men of my stature. Doorways are too low, signs hanging from the ceiling in shops hit me on the head, and public transport is next to impossible to be comfortable on. I sat in the seats at the front, with the extra legroom and the sign that dictates that the seat must be given up for the elderly or disabled. I could instantly feel the eyes of the buggy-women, their hot gaze angled at me. They clearly wanted the seat so they could abandon their buggies in the wheelchair space. I began to stand, but my buttocks were only an inch or two off the fabric before one of the women passed comment, very loudly and in my direction.
"Looks like manners are dead these days," she sneered. "I guess we'll have to stand." At that I sank back down, staring at the woman, hoping she noticed what had happened, but no, she was too busy frowning and moaning, her wretched little child joining the cruel symphony with yelps of his own. At the next stop, and elderly woman with a shopping trolley sat on the seat next to me, blocking me in, making it impossible for me to move seat, and crushing my kneecaps against the barrier in front.
I was too tired to feel guilty, and began questioning whether the buggy-women would have relinquished the seat had someone deeper in need had appeared. I somehow think not. How did we get to the stage where it is every man for himself? We have rejected each other in the most barbaric way possible, not even willing to reveal the slightest bit of humanity lest we are taken for weak fools.

After the bus journey, and after my mood had descended to the seventh level, I witnessed a road accident. An elderly man had been run over, and a group of people had gathered around him and the driver of the offending vehicle. A postman had taken off his Royal Mail issue high-visibility jacket and was out in the middle of the road, bullfighting with cars so they would give a wide berth. I stood for a second, but then moved on, leaving the scene hastily. The crowd had grown to about fifteen people, and the injured man looked more distressed about this than his calamity. After walking for about five minutes, an ambulance shot past me in the direction of the carnage. And that's when it struck me, in amongst all my isolation, bad manners and helplessness, that the ambulance is the only remaining symbol of humanity caring for its own. Those flashing lights and sirens connect us together, the only remaining strands in an ever-disintegrating web. What else do we have? Bono, bracelets and bring-and-buy sales. All tainted by guilt. We give because we are guilty. What motivates the Paramedics?

Good God, this is why I should never take a bus. It opens up a foul door in my brain, and now the hinges are rusted, keeping it ajar...