The last time I was a bus rider was over 5 years ago when my car was broke down. At the time, I thought how expensive it must be for these buses to go around town half empty. I don’t think that now, for the buses I ride are mostly full. I live in a city in the West in a car dominated culture. I also live in the higher income part of town - in a nice neighborhood. At certain times, it is not unusual to see professionals on the bus, a few well dressed senior citizens, some high school students that are still too young to drive, and college students from distant lands: Africa, Asia, and The Middle East. The occasional bicyclist who doesn't want to make the steep climb back up the South Hill. However, what I mostly notice is how poor are the people on the bus. There are the fast food workers in their black uniforms and t-shirts that read McDonald’s - All day breakfast! The Mexicans who look used to hard work, the druggies - gaunt and pale with headphones on and eyes that never smile, the mentally unstable - the mumbling, the depressed, the schizoids with their strange sharp odor, the overweight tattooed single moms with bizarre hairstyles - half shaved, half braided, and multi colored - dragging their little children behind them. Some with boyfriends - skinny and nervous. Then there are the middle aged women in dark clothes who look worn by life. I wonder if I look like them.
I realize how protected we are when driving in our cars. Each vehicle a distinct universe with its own music, adornments, and snacks. Rarely do we look into the car of another. We are in our own world and do not want to intrude. This attitude is carried over onto the bus where it seems strange to be sitting next to another human being, yet to be so separate. We watch, we assess the merit and the value of each one who boards and leaves. I wonder how to reach the red headed woman whose life is given to addiction. I imagine that her dealer must live in my neighborhood or perhaps a john. We pass the Union Gospel Mission Crisis Center for Women and Children “Hope Starts Here.” She gets out downtown by the motel that rents rooms by the hour. She looks like one used to degradation.
The US has big nets that promise safety: they keep many from falling to the ground. Yet there is a rumbling among the masses: a humbling of their circumstances that breeds a sort of mind-dumbing desperation. The pot shops are strung out all over town. Liquor is now sold in every convenience and drug store. The scratch tickets promise dreams fulfilled. Great revenue generators. It seems like state government has become the purveyor of addiction and vice. A vicious cycle - it takes from the poor with one hand and gives back with the other. The bus stops and starts continuing in its giant circle. The mother with an infant strapped across her breast leaves and in her place is a lonely bearded senior. The dread-locked black man in headphones nods his head to the music and smiles. We all avoid the eyes of each other. We all continue on our miles, bus-line 25.
PS - I reserve the right for artist license whenever the fancy strikes me.
