It’s been a pleasure pretending to ignore you.

Every day I pass them without doing what my instincts tell me I should — I never ask their names.

I’m going to attempt to start asking people I have seen on my commute their names. Those ubiquitous others with whom I share space in this public called transit may soon be acquaintances. I’m not sure how this will go.

For the last five years I have taken some combination of PACE suburban bus, CTA bus, CTA Train, or METRA train to get to and from work every day. In that time, one woman has been my Pace suburban driver many hundreds of days.

Until today, I didn’t know her name.

I was oddly nervous about asking her name. When I decided to move my study of the people of public transit to this next level — almost three months ago — I began to have doubts about my own ability to approach people instead of just observing.

Would they think I was a creep?

Would I tell them I was writing? Would they worry about privacy?

What happens if the conversation gets uncomfortable? Might there be any danger?

I am, after all, a stranger to them and they to I — we know very little about each other if anything at all. Yet, we are not really strangers are we? In fact we see each other more regularly than I see many of my closest family members.

That’s true of many of the “regulars” I encounter on my commute, from passengers to drivers to vagrants to assorted staff. How is it we can go about seeing each other so regularly and yet ignore so completely and be so completely ignored?

The answer is we don’t really ignore, we pretend to — which is possibly even more sociopathic.

What makes each day different is how pleasant it is (or not) to ignore the individuals with whom we share this last of common, public places. We judge this by the smells, micro-movements, sideways glances, and non-verbal noises. We file mental YELP reviews of every seat-mate we’ve ever had on busses, trains, taxis and planes. Some are certainly more pleasant to pretend to ignore than others.

Then there are those without whose service there would be no transit in these public spaces. The drivers, pilots, attendants, conductors, janitors, and more… they are the shephards of this last great unifying church.

Standing on the curb waiting for my bus and working up the nerve to find some way to get from “odd weather we are having” to “what is your name” without sounding creepy, I push my brain to imagine what the driver’s name might be.

Does she look like an Alice? Does she drive like a Renee?

A calming wind rustles the tree next to me.

She seems like a Kelly.

As I get on the bus I say good morning — as I’m sure a fair number of other passengers do. She responds, but quietly and without direct eye contact. I am a stranger, I must not forget, and in the public transit social context “good morning” is most regularly NOT an invitation to chat more.

Eye contact is always an important non-verbal cue.

Today may not be the best of days.

I sit. She drives. I look around. I am the only passenger.

I notice the bus is a bit larger than the model usually driven on this route. It also lacks the Sharpie scrawl graffiti and slightly foot smell I’ve come to expect.

“This bus almost looks new,” I say, noticing the newer style seats are not as comfy on a bump.

It works.

“Already has a few thousand miles on it,” she notes, “but they’re trying to bring in some new ones…”

I decide to dive in and move closer to the front at the next light.

“So, I’m writing about public transportation for my blog…”

That sounds so lame to my own ears, but she humors me.

“Really?”

I tell her about my interest in public transportation — that I believe it to be one of the last truly public places. That people of all walks assemble there and — for the most part — get along. That there are special rules. That technology is a convenient excuse to not interact with those around you.

She tells me of her days and how they are filled with people, some are more respectful than others. That there are easier routes and harder routes. That seniority factors heavily in who gets what. That routes and shifts are being broken up to save money in labor, which makes it harder in an already closed-off world to build relationships with riders or feel part of the community she serves.

When you only get to talk at stoplights, there isn’t much time.

My stop.

“It was a pleasure to meet you” I say.

Her name is Kelly, she says. I am glad to meet her. It seems the wind was right about her name.

It is worth noting that I have changed the driver’s name as I don’t want to get her into trouble and that I am a closet introvert which makes this experiment not a part of my comfort zone.