This morning we did something we almost never do at AITS. No, we’re not talking about brushing up on our personal hygiene…but come to think of it, that’s a must-do item that should go on the calendars of a few staffers here.

Today we actually interviewed a job candidate. We just hired an on-the-road correspondent not too long ago, and it’s not like we need any more demented people lurking around here, drawing a paycheck. But we did get a resume from one Margaret Salzenheimer, and thought, with a funny name like that we just had to meet her. So we told her to head up here the next day at 10AM. (No earlier than that, as our bloodstream caffeine levels would not be sufficiently elevated.)

Margaret doesn’t own a car, and so she had to take the bus. The bus line that passes through the worst neighborhoods in the city. You know where this story is going…

Our interviewee arrived punctually this morning, a few minutes before ten. Striking and tall, she looked nothing like we expected from someone named Margaret Salzenheimer (we had expected some cherubic, oompa-oompa-looking woman with a bad German accent). She had a look on her face that betrayed her feeling of sheer terror. Not terror of the interview to come, though that would be understandable, - perhaps even wise - given that Norm would be leading the interview. But we digress. No, this was a vivid display of the pure adrenaline-releasing, fight-or-flight reflex one can only get from riding the local transit system.

Margaret Salzenheimer, free-lance writer by profession, came to our interview armed with a portfolio crammed with previously-written articles, ready to dazzle us with her journalistic acumen. And we didn’t doubt for a minute that she could impress us. But we couldn’t care less about those old articles, as we were far more interested in hearing her fresh account of the ride in this morning. That, loyal readers, is the stuff good Alligators In The Sewer stories are made of.

Norm entered the room, looked at the nervous young woman seated in the lobby and said “Is this our test subject?,” with an impish, devil-may-care grin.

Introductions were made, and Ms. Salzenheimer (who Norm repeatedly called “Katzenjammer” by mistake) received the deluxe tour of the place. All one and a half minutes of it.

The good news: she hadn’t fled the premises. Yet.

Norm instructed Margaret to have a seat at the empty desk along the back wall, told her to help herself to some Cheetos and beer, handed her a legal pad and a pen, then bellowed, “Let’s see whacha got, Katzenjammer…write us a story about your day so far. Sink or swim!” We then left her to her own devises for well over an hour while we all surfed YouTube.

About the time Maynard returned with a bunch of hot sammiches for us, we all gathered ’round to look over Margaret’s story. This is what we got…

After a somewhat hellishly insane start to my day, getting out into the fresh air seemed like a great concept—until I got outside and saw the downpour.  “Oh well,” I thought, “luckily I remembered my umbrella.”

Due to the latest construction on the street in front of my house, the nearby intersection currently consists of unquestionably uneven ground, allowing water to pool in all of the nooks and crannies (and, well, holes).  Unfortunately, the stop for the bus is about 50 feet west of the aforementioned intersection, between a construction fence and one of the massive craters (which was greedily hoarding the pouring rain).

Waiting at the temporarily relocated bus stop was an elderly woman with an obviously new cast on her arm, trying furtively to keep it dry with a Target bag.  When I asked if she needed some assistance, she stated she was waiting for the other bus which also stopped there.

After only a split second internal debate, I reluctantly watched my bus driver pause at the stop and leave, set my umbrella down, and helped her cover her cast with the Target bag and some duct tape (which I happened to have in my possession today—don’t ask).  I then held my umbrella over her, as she was elderly and injured.  Due to the fact that she was on the larger side - well, actually quite rotund - I got a bit wet as the umbrella didn’t cover us both.  That’s when the light for oncoming traffic turned green.  Things quickly went south from there.

Some guy in a behemoth truck (replete with numerous bumper stickers, including one emblazoned with “Git-er-Done”) came cruising through one of the massive puddles, launching a tsunami of brown water all over me.  (I had fortuitously managed to block most of the spray from blasting the injured woman by quickly maneuvering the front of my umbrella between her and the bus).

After clearing the liquid from my eyes, I saw her staring at me, more specifically, at my chest area.  Despite the fact that I had my headphones in (I hadn’t bothered to take them out from the get-go; I could hear the woman above them), I heard her say (slightly under her breath) “Oh dear!”

It was then that her bus pulled up, and after ensuring she got on board without incident, I was then able to use my umbrella as cover……..for my FRONT, as it was only then that I realized (mortifyingly) why the woman had given me such a funny look after I got soaked.  I had on a white t-shirt, a SOAKING wet white t-shirt.  Right in front of all my neighbors, no less.  Sarcastically I thought to myself, “That’s just great.  All I need now are some high heels, a thong and a brass pole.”  As if on cue with my thoughts, Prince’s “Erotic City” began playing on my MP3 player.  I thought to myself, “OK I can read between the lines: the universe is officially fucking with me.”

After what seemed like an eternity, another bus rolled up, and I gratefully hopped on.  Entertainment on this morning’s bus ride was provided at no extra charge by the driver. He would announce each upcoming stop in a gruff, pirate’s voice. “Yarrrr…Seventh Street is next…” Every announcement into the microphone was prefaced with either a yarrrr!, avast! or ahoy! Naturally, I was the only rider on the bus giggling. Maybe all the other riders were pirates, and this driver was their captain.

I got off at the downtown transit station, and trudged into the restroom to change my shirt (luckily I had another one with me - I always carry an extra shirt AND duct tape!). Due in no small part to the dry change of clothes and the pirate improv, my day was looking brighter. I went on to walk a few more blocks (still in the rain) to catch my next bus.

Perhaps you thought that was the end of my ordeal. But wait…It’s only 9:35 and I haven’t caught my connecting bus yet.

The Ghetto Cruiser is one of those bus lines that stops at virtually every street corner, and even some places in between. It’s excruciatingly slow and it’s packed with some of the most unusual people you could ever hope to meet. Depending on the time of day, it typically loads and unloads several individuals at various stages of cleanliness and intoxication. Usually they sit by me. Today would be no different.

Today’s creep du jour was a scruffy fellow in his late forties who reeked of malt liquor and was wearing nothing but tube socks and his underwear. The bright, white Y-front kind preferred by 8-year-olds everywhere. The guy was decked out in the finest fashion by Hanes, and for some reason, the driver didn’t even notice him climbing on board. Neither did any of the other riders. It’s a regular thing, I guess.

Tighty Whitey sat down next to me and started babbling. The next 20 blocks were spent with me turning up my iPod to max volume, which did nothing to stop the chatter from my seatmate. I could shut out the sound, but unfortunately not the aroma. He smelled like a goat that had crapped himself while bathing in day-old Colt 45. I managed to hold back the natural urge to reverse-chow.

After a mile or so, Tighty Whitey got off at his stop and scurried into a corner liquor store, perhaps to pick up another fotie. Our bus trundled along until it was my turn to hop off. A couple blocks on foot and I was soon (thankfully!) walking in to the interview at Alligators In The Sewer. On time and dry. Oh dear!

Needless to say, after reading this intriguing (albeit verbose) tale of misadventure we were quite willing to carve out a niche for Ms. Salzenheimer - on an occasional free-lance basis. We told her she could work from home, which no doubt resonated with her in the best possible way. Stay tuned for more work from her.