And Another One Rides the Bus

Join me once again for a ride home from work…

Angela got on the bus as she did on most Thursday nights. She was usually pretty lively and fueled by whatever she’d had to drink that night. Sometimes she would sit across the aisle from me. Eventually she would lean toward me.

“I’ve just had a cocktail.” She would say the last word with such crispness that she seemed to snap it in two.

I would smile and she would confide. I remember little about her except that she worked at a hair salon.

This particular night she said nothing when she got on the bus and did not make eye contact. I greeted her and she nodded her head. Our bus driver, Bradley, a very voluble guy, didn’t notice anything as he was in the midst of a story about his life.

If something newsworthy happened—I remember a discussion about Columbine—he would offer opinions about that. However, Bradley’s favorite topics were himself and his apartment. He talked about decor, china patterns, carpets and drapes.

I am counterdomestic. Show me a swatch of material or a wallpaper sample and my eyes glaze over. The word armoire makes me sleepy. Etagere? I snore.

Bradley, enraptured by the vision of domestic comfort he was painting, failed to notice that his audience was silent. Even I, who have turned “Ummm” into a sound rich in meaning and nuance, felt unable to rise to the occasion.

I glanced at Angela. She looked enraged. As we were getting to her stop, Angela got shakily to her feet.

“BRADLEY!” she yelled. You talk about your rugs and your drapes and your china pattern and your Waterford crystal. You know somethin’? Nobody gives a [insert the expletive of your choice]”

Say amen, somebody!

I looked at Bradley. His eyes were wide and his face was as red as if he’d been slapped. Angela was already down the bus stairs and walking down the street.

Bradley’s features were crumpled up. He was shaking a little and his eyes were wet.

I am a firm believer that people piloting vehicles on the White Horse Pike should be in a state of focused serenity.

“Oh, Bradley. She was drunk,” I said. “When you see her next week she won’t remember it.”

He looked slightly calmer.

“She certainly didn’t mean it.” I lied in my warmest and most sincere voice.

He brightened, sniffed, and returned to being capable of driving safely.

The next Thursday Angela practically bounced onto the bus. We greeted each other. She had had a cocktail (or two).

Bradley said nothing. Angela and I chatted for a few minutes. Then Angela leaned toward Bradley.

“What’s the matter, Bradley? Cat got your tongue? What happened about those drapes you were gonna buy?”

© 2013 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