"Gorgeous"

I’ve never had good luck with public transportation, buses being no exception. The plethora of horror stories I've accumulated since childhood would lead the average person to an alternative mode of transport, but the bus inexplicably remains my safety blanket in the world of travel. No matter how many times it uses and abuses me, I always come back for more.

For various reasons, I didn’t get my license until sophomore year in college, instead riding the big yellow school bus up until the very last day of high school. This would have embarrassed most, but I always enjoyed my ride in the very first seat behind the bus driver. I’ve never been one to look for trouble and never ventured past the first or second row of the bus as a result. I wasn’t named homecoming queen because of it, but I managed to escape the shenanigans in the back.

The only trouble I ever had began in sixth grade when a girl two years older than me decided to sit next to me every day to get under my skin. She also decided to call me Betty. Mocking was one thing, but my name was not Betty! I spent the next year reminding her on a daily basis that my parents named me Lauren, thank you very much. She didn’t seem to care.

Sixth grade came and went and I continued to ride the bus for the next six years with my name and honor intact.

After high school, I graduated from the public school bus to the Greyhound, which was always a real treat. My trips from Fredericksburg to Baltimore around each holiday were not for the faint of heart, and almost always involved a passenger with no legs. The drive from college would have taken two and a half hours at most, but the Greyhound operated much like the pony express and doubled that time. Part of the problem was the token legless passenger, who took an extra fifteen minutes to get off the bus and use the restroom during one of our many stops. I’m in no way mocking the disabled, just explaining why it would have been faster for me to rollerblade down I-95.

The Baltimore station was always the scariest and most disorganized of the stops. Traveling home for a wedding one Friday night in college, I had the pleasure of watching the bus driver search each of the ten buses in the terminal for my luggage. He couldn’t seem to tell me why my luggage had moved from MY bus, finally finding it underneath a Greyhound minutes away from leaving for Salt Lake City. I had always wanted to check out Utah, but this was not the time or place.

I finally got my license, and therefore a car, halfway through college, but reverted back to public transportation while studying abroad in England my junior year. We were doing a ton of traveling in those four months and money was getting tight, so I suggested we forgo the traditional plane and take a bus to Paris instead. How bad could a 13-hour ride really be?

We left our place in Bath at 3 am the morning of our trip and boarded the bus. It was strangely full for a middle of the night departure and we had to quickly scan the rows for any available seats. I immediately saw an opening in the first row and plopped down while my other three roommates headed further back.

Upon first glance, the man sitting to my left in the window seat appeared to be your average bloke. But after getting situated and glancing back over, I started to take better inventory. A portly gentleman who spilled over into my seat, the man appeared to be homeless in both looks and smell. He had tufts of hair missing from his head and fingers that resembled sausage links. He flashed a smile and I began to feel a bit uneasy about the journey ahead.

Sitting back in my seat, I put in my earphones and closed my eyes, hoping to sleep for the next three hours before our stop in London. After what must have been no longer than fifteen minutes, I woke up to the feel of something on my thigh. Eyes still shut, I realized Sausage Fingers had his hand on my leg, massaging my left thigh in a circular motion. His fingers felt incredibly heavy and I sat there motionless, trying to decide what to do. I could suddenly feel him moving closer to me, his breath on my neck as he whispered “gorgeous” into my ear. Enough was enough.

I opened my eyes and shot him the meanest look I could muster. I’m not sure it came across that way, as I’ve never been one for confrontation, but he removed his hand from my leg. I turned around and met Bridget’s gaze, attempting to silently convey the molestation that had just occurred. Once again, my facial expression failed to deliver the correct message and Bridget simply smiled and waved before closing her eyes.

Turning back around, I was at a loss. If I fell back asleep, God only knows where those paws would roam. But if I stayed awake, I would risk verbal interaction with him. I opted for choice two and tried to focus on the sweet jams of Gavin DeGraw coming through my earphones. Sausage Fingers still wanted more, though! Half an hour after the unsolicited leg massage, he once again placed his stumps on my leg, this time shifting all of this weight on my body while attempting to remove his Velcro shoes. When he finally removed them, it became quite clear Sausage Fingers had been wearing the same Velcro shoes for about 18 years. I was also fairly certain a large rodent of some sort had recently crawled into one of them before taking its last breath.

Looking back, this would have been the appropriate moment to speak up. Something like “kindly remove your sausage links from my leg,” would have worked. For those who prefer a more direct approach, “fuck off!”

Instead, I said nothing, and waiting patiently for him to play Mr. Rogers.

Two and a half excruciating hours later, Sausage Fingers exited the bus. Ten hours later we arrived in Paris.

In the years since that night in 2007 when a homeless man with seemingly kind eyes took advantage of me, Sausage Fingers has turned into a legend of mythic proportions. I often think back to 11-year-old Lauren, sitting on the yellow school bus, answering to “Betty” and unaware of the path that would soon lead her to Sausage Fingers.

Years from now when I put my own daughter on the school bus for the very first time, a tear or two in my eyes, I’ll surely wonder what lies ahead. She’ll no doubt call me from a pay phone after her first foreign groping, feeling vulnerable and used. Like any good mother, I’ll offer her words of encouragement and advice, before reminding her of the most important thing.

At least it’s a good story.