Reaching Nirvana

I’m on the M1 heading downtown. I’ve had my teeth polished. I’ve seen the DOG. I’ve done a bit of walking, and a bit of talking to my crazy friend “L” on my new cell phone. I’ve dodged crane-necked tourists in plaid shorts and visors. I’ve just made a couple of delightful purchases at Banana Republic. I’m thinking about the pint of Soy Delicious® Cherry Nirvana I bought this morning and how I’m actually kind of glad Whole Foods was out of Praline Pecan, because I was “forced” to try a new flavor. I’m grooving in a very Zen-like state. Or as close as someone with my temperament, on a bus in New York City, can get to grooving.
Then I hear it. From the back of the bus. A baby. Just a few sobs. My shoulders inch toward my ears, and then ease when the sobbing stops. Then I hear it again. This time more insistent. Outright wails now. Not the kind that sound like the baby is choking on a porkchop, but close. And not just the baby this time. This time the person in charge of the baby (parent? guardian? kidnapper?) gets into the act. With lots of “lalalalalala”ing and chanting and singing and “ahhh ahhhh ahhhhhhh”ing.
The bus stops at almost every light. The baby stops crying. But the adult doesn’t stop the singsong chant nonsense that has been making me murderous for almost the entire bus ride down Park Avenue.
I turn to my left slightly to see who the miscreants are. It’s a man and a woman. The baby is on the woman’s lap. Both the adults and baby are completely oblivious to everyone else on the bus. The bus is, in effect, their own private living room. I’m surprised they’re not all in their “jammies” eating Cheerios and playing with their toes.
I can’t stand it anymore. The next stop is not mine, but I push the strip by the window to signal the bus to stop anyway. I stand and walk toward the exit near the back of the bus. Just before the bus stops, I reach for the spare porkchop in my purse. I turn to the three gurgling babies, smile at the woman, and as the bus pulls over to the curb, I ram the porkchop down her throat.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any applesauce!” I yell as I push the back doors open and jump down onto the sidewalk.
I think about how even more delicious Cherry Nirvana is going to taste now.