My 10-minute ride through hell

Grannies Gone Wild,
Or the harsh reality of a morning trolley bus ride

It is 9:30 in the morning. The frustrated 9 am workers are now gone, and I am about to take an approximately 10-minute-long trolley bus ride to Astoria. The sun is shining, everything seems peaceful, but I cannot help but feel that something is wrong. This is only the calm before the storm, I can feel it in my bones. I have heard stories of vicious parents taking their children to school, but there is nothing that can be compared to the creatures that are just about to get on the trolley: old ladies.

They are dangerous enough travelling alone, but this is a pack. I can see the alpha in the chinchilla fur with dyed red hair. She is followed by another holding a cat carrier, and one with a huge bun towering on the top of her head. I better give my seat up and move slowly to the back of the trolley. These women are nuts: one careless move and I’ll be dead. My once safe double seat is now taken, and the mean chit-chat begins. Husbands who died under mysterious circumstances, beloved cats, reckless grandchildren, Colombian soap operas, anti-aging creams, and the best stew recipes are being discussed when a girl in distressed jeans hops on.

I can hear my own heart beat while I’m watching how the group of old ladies suddenly turns to the girl in disgust. I am anxious to see what is about to happen, but the grannies cannot accost the girl because a man asks them to move their bags so he can have room to get off. He just dug his own grave. The one with the red hair arises and lifts her enormous Gucci bag while “accidentally” stabbing the man in the liver with an umbrella. A painful cry and some mumbling are heard, and the man disappears.

The number of possible stabbing victims is increasing with each stop, and suddenly there are around 50 people on the trolley bus. There is hardly enough air for this many, and the amount of perfume the three old ladies poured on themselves this morning does not help at all. Everybody is quiet, only the meowing of Jávor Pál (named after one of the most popular Hungarian actors) and the occasional Viber notification sound breaks the silence. Mr. Jávor is a rather fat and lazy-looking cat with a little bell hanging on his sparkly collar. A fellow passenger and I just roll our eyes together when we hear the old lady talking about “Pali” as if he was a real person, when a young foreign couple gets on with a black Labrador Retriever named Robin. Now Pali puffs up his tail and starts thumping on the wall of the carrier so hard I think he is about to turn into a werewolf in there. Meanwhile, as if nothing had changed, Robin is enjoying the ride with his owners.

My focus is on the old lady’s face with the shaking cat carrier on her lap. She clenches her teeth, and her eyes are lightning while she collects her thoughts before opening her mouth to tell the foreign couple where to go. In a high-pitch voice, she also advises them to take “that damn dog” too. It is obvious she got upset that her precious Mr. Pál Jávor was disturbed during his morning outing. However, the couple does not understand a single word, since they do not speak Hungarian. Lucky them. They crack a joke then hop off with Robin. Apparently, not speaking Hungarian on the public transport is an advantage.

My 10-minute ride through hell is about to come to an end, and it is my turn to flee. I force my way through the mass of people to be able to hop off. I finally do, but before the door closes, I can hear one last scream: “You filthy hooligan! You stepped on my shoes!” I thank God I didn’t have to see what happened to the boy and consider coming on foot to university tomorrow.