a feature by Logan Lafferty:

It’s often been said that the United States is a melting pot. A fondue set filled not with cheese or chocolate, but a vast array of cultures. It’s what we Americans hang our collective hat on.

Thusly, it’s not too farfetched to say that public transportation is a microcosm of that red, white and blue fondue set. You get a flavor of everything: the homeless person that smells like cigarettes and cheap vodka, the waiter on his way to a night shift at a fancy restaurant, the young professional who wears a suit and doesn’t want to pollute the environment with his Toyota Camry.

I find myself somewhere in the latter third of that spectrum.

In the wake of the rash of cases of police brutality and overreach and leading up to the election of the orange-colored condom filled with mayonnaise known as our 45^th President, I felt compelled to be overtly nice to the entire spectrum I encountered – on the bus and elsewhere. To put positive vibes out into the world.

Just a middle-class white guy overcompensating. Unheard of, right?

So as the bus would make its stops, and more people got on, I was eager to put my bag on my lap and offer up as much space next to me as I could.

One day I came to regret this practice.

It’s a hot July afternoon and the sun is still high in its descent. Of course, the air conditioning on the bus is broken and the open slits in the windows just push around hot air.

We come to a stop and a man gets on carrying an above-average amount of bags, leading me to believe he is homeless. Scraggly tufts of wild blonde hair sprout from beneath a dirty orange stocking cap. He wears an army green trench coat speckled with holes.

I can’t quite place my finger on it until it hits me. He looks like Robert Englund if Robert Englund had a bad meth habit.

I can’t fathom how he can wear all that in this stifling heat, but I catch myself. Come on, man. You don’t know his life, I think. You don’t know what he’s going through.

So, I offer him a welcoming smile as he takes his seat next to me. He slides two bags under the seat and sets one on his lap. It’s a Star Wars satchel, the cover of A New Hope to be exact.

I’m sure you know the one. Luke Skywalker is wielding his lightsaber, Princess Leia looks concerned in her bun hair, Han Solo is aiming his blaster and Obi Wan Kenobi has warning eyes.

“You a Star Wars fan, too?” I ask.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, but stares straight ahead and continues to chew on what I’m decently certain is his tongue.

Stop it, dude. You don’t know him.

I clear my throat. “He’s my favorite,” I say, pointing to Han. “He’s the best one of the group, I think.”

My hand entering his field of vision must pop his bubble because he turns to me. His eyes are watery and bloodshot and the stubble of several days covers his face.

“Who’s your favorite?”

A smile breaks out across his face, wrinkling his cheeks and exposing a couple missing teeth.

I’m thrilled. This is why I felt compelled to reach out more to people. To spread joy, to share a human experience.

Encouraged, I continue. “Who ya got? Luke?”

He lets out a low groan which I assume is an affirmative, so I go on. “Do you have a favorite of the movies? Mine’s probably Empire, but I do really like – “

I stop midsentence because I’ve been slapped in the face.

Not literally, but a stench rocks me with the intensity of a thousand suns. I recoil and look around the bus. Surely someone has brought the rotting corpse of a cow as their carry on. It must be “Dress Up in Dirty Diapers Day” at somebody’s office.

But I make eye contact with manic Robert Englund and he’s continuing the low groan that I had mistook for affirmation. In an instant I come to the horrific realization: this man has shit his pants.

Suddenly the bus is too hot. The air is too thick. There are too many people. There is too much shit near me.

The man continues his grin and groan routine, seemingly oblivious to my growing sense of panic. You know that claustrophobic nightmare where you’re in a room and all the walls start closing in, so you start screaming but screaming is futile?

That’s me. Except the walls are made of shit instead of drywall and the screaming is going on internally and nobody knows my struggle.

I yank the cord to request off and the bus stops shortly after. The man doesn’t budge (with a pair of full britches, I honestly wouldn’t either), so I hike up a leg and shimmy over what’s sure to be a bubbling lake of brown beneath both me and Robert Englund.

I weasel my way through the rest of the bus patrons and push myself through the side doors, filling my lungs and nostrils with the fresh air. I begin to calm down, my anxiety ebbing and…

Ah, fuck. I’m still five miles away from home.