Meet the trolley o’ doom
The trolley runs a free route from downtown to the university, designed for tourists and visitors to easily get around, but locals take advantage, too, and I’m definitely among them. It runs frequently, it’s convenient; there’s a stop not far from where I live, and my friends and I take it to grab some lunch about once a week. Because I have no car, I ride it alone a few times a week, too, in order to get where I need to go. And the trolley is pretty cute: old-timey, painted green and gold, with a cheery little bell instead of a horn. In short, the trolley looks like a perfectly innocent, adorable little vehicle when it motors around town.
But the trolley is like a box of chocolates hurling through the air—you never know what you’re going to get, and you don’t know if you’re going to get through your encounter with it alive. The ride is pleasant until the trolley goes over an anthill and people slide off their benches and into the aisle. The bell is adorable until the trolley starts bucking, jerking and speeding up right behind a car, with the driver maniacally ringing the bell to urge the car to go faster **DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING**. Like the children of the corn, one is cute, but more than one signals your impending demise.
I call it the trolley o’ doom, and my friends always wondered why. Then they rode it with me.
One of the first times we rode downtown it was crowded, all of the seats were full, and people were standing everywhere in the aisle. A man, clearly drunk, boards the bus, and shuffles through the group of people to find a spot to stand. He brushes up against a woman as he passes her.
“Oh, sorry ma’am. Sorry! I didn’t mean to touch your ass! I’m sorry!”
Woman sort of shrugs him off. He continues:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch your ass. Really. I didn’t mean to touch your ass. Really. Didn’t mean it. Really, I didn’t mean it.”
She shoots him a look, but he presses on:
“…I only like attractive women.”