“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.”   On it goes.  A man’s recorded voice delivers the lyrics in a monotone. Three words sung over a thudding bass. Sung? What am I saying? The man is talking, speaking the words. It’s not even rapping. Rap is an artform. Spoken poetry. This? This is nothing.

“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” It’s too early for this shit. I am not Miley Cyrus. She would not be standing on a bus with a stranger’s elbow poking into her back. As the bus crawls forward in morning traffic, the song continues.  ”I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” I look around the bus to figure out the source of this plague. It’s a cell phone. What kind of fool chooses that as their ringtone?

Then I see him. A man with a gold ring through his nose. With one hand he adjusts his leather baseball cap and with the other he raises the volume on his iPhone. WTF?! It’s not a ringtone. He’s actually using the phone as if it were a ghetto blaster and playing this song on the loudspeaker.  What kind of person does that in a public space? What kind of person does that?

I stare at him. Everything about him says “Y’all can kiss my black—” “I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” He drums his fingers on a large leather duffel bag that ‘s festooned with the initials LV. I cannot believe that’s a real Louis Vuitton. Miley Cyrus would have a real Louis Vuitton. Not this guy.

I’m pissed and about to say something but I think better of it. The last time I said something I wound up in a shouting match with a nutcase. That was also on a bus. Actually, these scenarios have happened many more times than I wish to remember. On buses. In public places.

There was time I tried to exit the bus and some guy refused to let me pass by. When he  told me to take my meds, I went off on him. Bless the sane elderly woman who interrupted my shouting match and said, “Honey, he’s not worth it.” Her words pulled me back to sanity. Just in time.

Then there was the time when a homeless man entered Starbucks and asked patrons for money. Everyone declined.  He stopped at my table, and as soon as I said No, he began hurling expletives at me. My response? “Oh, I’m cheap? Sorry you feel that way, sir.” The other patrons continued typing on their laptops; the barristers continued mixing lattes. On it went. “You are a bitch.”  True. Very true. Doesn’t bother me.

Then the insults turned personal. The man would not go away. He seemed to be more fixated on me than my last boyfriend. Why was I such a magnet for crazy people? The more personal his insults became, the more indignant I grew. Finally, I shouted back.

And then a part of me saw myself reflected in the man’s deranged eyes. Why had I lowered myself to this? Why had I let myself get sucked into someone else’s lunacy? I blessed him for showing me myself, but I didn’t give him a dime.

“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” The brother with the golden nose ring turns his back to me, and I’m certain he’s running late like everyone else on the bus. Is the song his way of releasing anxiety? I should feel compassion, show understanding. After all, we’re all in this together. Right? After all, I am trying to become a better person. Still, a voice shouts in my head: “Get off the goddamn bus!”