Benny’s World: Chinatown Bus Moneyball
(Ed: Benny is still drying himself out after last week’s debauch-fest in Austin. Weighing in on his behalf is none other than Philadelphia Independent alumnus / The Nation scribe, Christine Smallwood. Thanks for bailing Benny out and get back to exposing America’s elite protectionists.)
The Chinatown Bus. Each week, Benny brings us a tale, an anecdote, a hypothesis. Why does a man stand, arms crossed, in front of the toilets, allowing no passage?
How does one arrange to be picked up or deposited at the Mobil station on the side of the highway in Cherry Hill? He explains these little mysteries. But one mystery that cannot be solved is the mystery of the refund. Why can’t they just give you your money back? Because they would rather swallow their own teeth.
About three weeks ago, I approached 88 East Broadway in lower Manhattan. It was cold and cloudy, rush hour. A mass of my fellow travelers were clogging up the corner, spilling into the street. The familiar shouts reached my ears: “DC! DC! Philadelphia!” along with some less familiar ones: “Virginia Beach!” Something hung in the air. Was it apocalypse?
One gentleman in particular was unhappy. A virgin on the Chinatown seas, he was not prepared to purchase one ticket and wait, perhaps an hour, while various, hawkers lied about the bus’s time for departure. He was not prepared to buy a second ticket and eat his losses. He had come to Chinatown, small, adorable son in tow, no doubt on the anecdotal advice of a friend take the Chinatown bus, it’s so cheap. But Greyhound it is not. The customer, in Chinatown, is always wrong.
Mr. Bat (our hero) was angry that he had been misled about his bus. “Five minutes, five minutes,” he mocked the lady. His five minutes had stretched into three quarters of an hour. He wanted his money back. But oh-ho! Teeth before money. NO matter his wait. No matter the chilliness of his son, the burdensome nature of his sonĮs suitcase. Mr. Bat grew angry. His rage could not be contained. He began following one of the bus ladies around, swinging his bat. His motherfucking bat. Why did he have a bat? Why does anyone have a bat?
He grabbed the ladyĮs wrist and demanded a refund (ha!). She squirmed away. He brandished the bat threateningly. A tiny crowd formed. We watched. We did nothing. His son began to whimper. The pair circled, like cocks in a ring. He chased her to the sidewalk. He waved the bat at her. She grabbed a stool and hit him with a stool. He knocked her to the ground.
Mayhem! Pandemonium! The Chinatown bus is not for amateurs! Several minutes later, I observed Mr. Bat with talking to a young gentleman. “She shouldn’t have lied to you, but you shouldn’t have a bat, man, he commented. Mr. Bat agreed to this wisdom. His tiny son looked on.
The Chinatown bus is run by crooks and cads, undoubtedly the victims of their own success. But you shouldn’t have a bat.
