Mini-sode

(I change all names for sake of privacy)

This last week has been filled with a lot of mini stories, and being that I do not want to write more than one long blog, I am writing mini-sodes for each. The first mini-sode is the bloodiest.

An intern and I had a conference with Sen. Sherrod Brown, the Ohioan senator. This conference was being held in the Hart Building, and we had to get to Capitol Hill.

(Side Story: Our work complex has a bus that shuttles people from Towngate (where I work) to Crystal City (a metro stop.) The shuttle driver, John, is quite a character. He is an overall nice guy, but very rough around the edges and one that is anal about his job. I remember that the first day I came to work he came in and had a spiel about the shuttle schedule. “The bus leaves at 45, if you are outside at 46 you are going to be left. I don’t care what your story is.” I was actually afraid of this bus driver, more so than the ones that drove the buses in elementary, middle, and…yes…HIGH school. (I was one of those lame high school junior/seniors.) The first day I ever rode was a telling example of his disregard for “stories.” I was heading to Crystal City, and arrived promptly at John’s stop at 4:40. When we got on, a girl suddenly remembered forgot something on her desk. It was 4:43, the shuttle leaves at 45. She ran off and when it hit 4:45, he took off. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hey…um…that girl isn’t on, and she left her stuff.

Anal Bus Driver: Well, she’ll know to find it.

From that moment on, he went from intensely anal to intensely scary. )

However, that wasn’t even the mini-sode. Back to the Sherrod Brown conference, the intern and I got to his stop 5 minutes early; he rolled up 2 minutes later, and 3 minutes after that, we were off. He was joking and good spirits. Suddenly, while we were driving on Washington Parkway, I saw a flash in front of the bus, and then a thump. We had hit something, but it wasn’t a person, rather a bird. Now, most people would instantly feel bad. I did and I wasn’t even driving. What did John say? Did he say “Darn, I can’t believe I killed that animal!”

No.

His words were, “Darnit, now I have to wash the van.” He continued to mumble about something and he then expounded as to why the van is colored maroon. “To hide the blood of these stupid animals.” At that moment what happened? We hit another one, and in the same spot! I had, at that moment, passed any sense of remorse, and was openly laughing at the situation. After having killed two birds, we arrived, the intern and I jumped out to inspect the damage. Right under the headlight, on the maroon painted bumper, was a softball sized patch of feathers, and barely visible blood. He was right, maroon paint does hide the blood.