A Bus Story: AM Version

Yes, it’s time to ride the bus again.

When I rode the bus to work in the mornings, I shared it with 7 or 8 people who worked at a sheltered workshop. They had cognitive or emotional difficulties. Some of them remained in the sheltered workshops and others were able to get jobs in the community.

My favorite of these passengers was Stan. Stan was the embodiment of ebullience.

His conversation was filled with stories of outings with his family and on his own. His favorite weekly ritual was a bus trip to the local mall where he had lunch. I was never sure what he ate as an entree, but dessert was always a do-it-yourself sundae and 6 cups of coffee.

One morning Stan got on the bus and sat next to me.

“This weekend I made up six new words.”

“And definitions?” I asked.

The light in his eyes dimmed and he was speechless. I felt wretched.

“Well, it must take a quite a while to come up with definitions,” I offered.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. And joy unrestrained was restored.

Stan had a relationship of sorts with Liz, another workshop client. Liz was taciturn. She said little and she spoke only to Stan.

“Tea bag!” she bellowed one morning.

I was so startled that the novel I was reading was suddenly airborne and it was only with great luck that I caught it before it hit the floor.

I looked across the aisle to see Stan silently giving Liz a teabag. Liz was also silent and moved to the back of the bus. Every morning Liz would demand her teabag and Stan would supply it. This little ritual occurred morning after morning.

At one point I had flu for a few days and so missed work. When I returned to the bus things had changed. Stan seemed downcast. He did not so much as nod a greeting.

Liz got on the bus at her stop.

“Tea bag.”

Stan stared at his lap.

“Tea bag. Tea bag. Tea bag. Tea bag. TEA BAG!”

Stan stared at his lap.

Liz finally gave up and moved to her seat toward the back of the bus. When the bus stopped at the workshop, Stan was off in a flash.

“I missed something,” I said to Jim, the bus driver.

“Well, it goes something like this. Stan told me that Liz stole his wallet and wasn’t even especially subtle about it. She denied she stole it and that’s where things stand. And you know how Stan is. He just believes the best of everybody, even Liz.”

“And you think he’s wrong.”

“I think he’s lucky she didn’t cut out his heart and eat it as a snack.”

The next day, having grown immune to the morning drama, I returned to reading my novel. Stan bounded onto the bus.

“Good morning!” he said.

When Liz got on the bus, she went right to Stan.

“Tea bag.”

Stan handed over the tea bag and Liz moved to the back of the bus.

After they got off the bus, I turned to Jim.

“So what do you think changed?” I asked.

“Oh, Steph, Stan isn’t like you and me. He forgives.”

©  2014 Stephanie Patterson

A Bus Story

I don’t drive so I never travel alone. I always share my commuting time with the masses that make up mass transportation or a cab driver.

This is a tale from a time of my most storied commutes. In the late 1990s I worked at a Family Service organization in Absecon, New Jersey. I traveled from my home in Lindenwold on a very comfy bus. The commute was a little over an hour each way and it allowed me plenty of time to read. The ride to work deposited me right in front of my office. I caught a ride home on the other side of the White Horse Pike right in front of a Wawa.

My fellow travelers were a colorful assortment of people who could talk of owning cars as other people might talk about winning the lottery. The bus drivers were all very friendly and looked out for me. They frequently offered help with my bags or my cane, but I was adept at getting on and off the bus.

One evening one of the drivers asked me what I did for a living.

“Oh, I’m a counselor at the agency across the street,” I said.

He laughed. “Oh, the folks on the bus would love to know that. I could drum up some business.”

“Please don’t. If anyone asks what I do tell them I’m a cocktail waitress.”

A few weeks later one of the regulars boarded the bus. She was, as always, drunk.

We traveled a few minutes longer. I was deep into Barchester Towers and not really paying attention to the people around me. Then I heard a voice say, “Let me help you with that.”

The bus had stopped in front of a supermarket and a woman with many bags of groceries was trying to get herself and them onto the bus. The inebriated female passenger was offering the help. She managed to get each and every bag on the bus, but she dropped each of them noisily as she did so.

“Gee, I hope that didn’t have eggs in it.” she would call out cheerily.

I had quit reading due to the ruckus and the bus driver wanted to chat about something other than the grocery delivery. Next to the grocery store was a 24 hour adult book store. Long gone were the days when I thought these were places where insomniacs could pick up the complete works of Emmanuel Kant.

The bus driver began to read from the sign.

“Nude Dancing, Lap Dancing, B and D.” He gave me a puzzled look. “I wonder what B and D is?”

“Bondage and Domination,” I said in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Wow! How does somebody like you know something like that?” he asked.

I smiled and returned to the world of Anthony Trollope.

© 2013 Stephanie Patterson