“Excuse me, sir, this bus has a no cell phone policy.”
I assume this guy is the bus driver, until I realize the bus is moving.
My seatmate continues his conversation instead of responding: “We’re coming up today, but it’s already the weekend . . . I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell us about this earlier . . . $50 a day . . . and you’re still going to charge for ten days when you’re just notifying us now?”
The Bus Driver Wannabe’s arm practically brushes my face as he reaches across to tap my husband’s shoulder. “Sir!”
“Look,” I snap, “he needs to finish this call. It’s urgent – my car has been towed, and – “
Wannabe raises his hands in surrender and retreats to his seat.
The call ends and I comment to the back of the man’s head, “The citizens of Boston are just so helpful,” I turn to my husband, “because you were just sitting there chatting with your girlfriend who’s, oh wait, right here, and because we haven’t been on these buses a million times – “
The routine bus announcement goes off – cell phone use is prohibited, except in the case of emergency calls –
“Huh,” I practically yell over two rows at the balding head, “Emergency calls.”
Two Years Before the Mass. 