Struggling liberal

Sometimes it’s hard to be open-minded. This morning was one such time.

At approximately 07:46 I boarded the 209 bus, ready for the ten minute journey to Hammersmith. Things were going well when my favourite seat, behind the partition on the left so you can see the road ahead and near the back door for a speedy exit, was vacant. I sat down and absent-mindedly placed my spare bag on the aisle seat to my right. Then, like a good person, I conceded that someone might want to sit there and reprimanded the anti-social and selfish part of me that wanted the double seat to myself. I lifted my bags off the seat and put them at my feet.

At the next stop, an obese, unshaven gentleman in shabby, stained clothes boarded the bus. ‘Guaranteed he comes and sits next to me,’ I whined internally. But then I reprimanded myself again, this time for being so judgmental and prejudiced against someone who perhaps doesn’t have the money or the means to buy new clothes, or even wash his existing garments.

He sat next to me.

And he stank as though neither his clothes nor anything surrounding him had seen water, a bar of soap or a wet wipe in decades. Alcohol, stale cigarettes and several other miscellaneous odours assaulted my sensitive early-morning nostrils. With what I hoped was subtlety, I turned my head away to the left and looked out the window, simultaneously reprimanding myself for being so precious.

Then the coughing began. Great lumps of phlegm were forced out of his lungs and then snorted south once more in a fairly continual loop. Convinced I was going to contract lung cancer, and close to vomit point, I bemoaned my lack of paranoid-phase-Michael-Jackson­-face-mask and switched on my iPod to block out the noises.

‘Calm yourself,’ I mantraed. Sure, this man reeked. He was overweight, dirty and doing things with his nasal passages that would make the Queen retch in public. But I had no context. Perhaps he was desperately ill and in despair. Perhaps his wife had recently left him and, miserable, he’d sunk into a pit, possibly one containing raw sewage. I pleaded with myself not to be rude to a stranger, not to let my prejudices affect the way I treated another human being.

And for the rest of the journey, I succeeded.

Upon our arrival at Hammersmith, relieved my ordeal was over, I stood up, ready to make use of our speedy exit position by the doors. But my companion did not stand up, his vast knees blocking my path. I stood there patiently for about five seconds, when suddenly he snapped.

‘Don’t rush me!’ he barked at me in a surprisingly squeaky voice. His breath confirmed my suspicions that he’d begun his morning with a fair amount of alcohol. ‘I don’t want to get off yet!’ he spat.
‘Well,’ I said, willing myself to remain calm. ‘That’s not really my fault, is it?’
‘No, it’s NOT your fault!’ he squawked back. ‘It’s the BUS DRIVER’s fault.’ The questionable logic behind this statement, coupled with the fact that at least fifteen people had already poured off the bus and were striding towards the tube, as I rightfully should have been, pushed me over the brink. The full extent of my middle-class disgust bubbled over. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’
Visibly bursting with rage at my outrageous request, the (mad)man stroppily jerked his knees to one side, but as I squeezed past him he shouted, ‘Oh go on then, you silly bitch!’

As I stepped down onto the pavement, the whole world seemed to be staring at me, unsure of the story so far and perhaps trying to calculate who was at fault – the overweight man sitting down or the haughty-looking girl in the trench coat walking away at a fair speed. I hoped they would give me the benefit of the doubt – but then reprimanded myself for wanting people to take my side. He may have been offensive, both verbally and nasally, but who’s to say that he hadn’t been suffering far more than I ever have? Perhaps he needs more people on his side.

Like I say, it’s hard to be nice: this holier than thou act does not come naturally to me. And being verbally abused before 8am by a drunk, fat man in need of decongestant, detoxification and disinfectant isn’t the best start to anyone’s day. But although I was sorely tempted to stamp on his flabby foot or unleash a stream of hygiene advice laced with expletives, I didn’t retaliate and, for now at least, today’s liberal halo remains untarnished.