Standing on the corner of Where the Hell Am I and I Don’t Think So

I’ve learned more about the human condition in the first three days of taking public transportation than I did in three years of sitting in the car.

Basic Commuter Philosophy: Sometimes you make your connections and sometimes you don’t. It’s all good. At least you have both feet on the ground, are walking upright, and are meaningfully employed. Besides, there’s always another bus behind the one you missed. In theory.

Week two of public transportation and now that I’ve had an opportunity to learn the basics — such as the fact that the Gods of Commuting allow their buses to run either five minutes ahead or five minutes behind schedule with total impunity — it is time to learn the more subtle nuances of the Art. For example, when one boards the vehicle one must immediately either hold on to something or take a seat because the driver will accelerate quickly, resulting in a deeper understanding of the phrase “go to the back of the bus.”

Convinced that the Magic Mama who sat plastered to my hip for the past hour was trying to steal my soul with her other worldly speak.

Ordinary bus stop or gateway to another dimension — I swear that fellow commuters step into the bus shelter but never step out. They just vanish.

I’m not usually one to speak an errant word about anyone, but I do wish that the young lady sitting in front of me on the bus would keep all of her hair on her own side. It keeps getting caught between the pages of my book.

Watching “late December” try to pick up “early April” is painful. “December” doesn’t have a chance with “April” with dialogue like this: “What country are you from?” She responds politely that she’s American. He follows with “But you look Chinese.”

Friday morning commute compromised. Bus filled with smoke. Evacuated safely. Whatever.

Every work day my morning commute is pretty much the same. I arrive at the bus stop just in time to see another bus go by. It is not my bus, but the driver always slows down just in case I’ve changed my mind. A few minutes later a young man dressed in scrubs walks by from the opposite direction. He looks tired. I assume he works the night shift at one of the local hospitals. Next, a construction worker walks by carrying a newspaper and a lunch pail. He always says good morning. He is followed by a young man on a bike, also in hospital scrubs. The rider is always in a hurry. He buzzes around the construction worker, who always seems startled, and speeds away. Just before my bus arrives one last person typically passes by. He is an older man, walking slowly with a sad look on his face. I assume he’s on his way to work but never seems happy about it. Perhaps he’s counting the days until he can retire.

Today was different. The first bus and driver passed by on cue. The sleepy young man as well. But the construction worker, who looked a few years younger than usual, seemed to have forgotten his morning paper, his lunch and his manners. The man on the bike arrived and departed as usual, but he was followed by two young girls carrying coffee. When the grumpy old man arrived I was surprised to see that he was carrying a large striped umbrella. He smiled and said good morning.

If it’s true that “all the world’s a stage and we are merely players”, then I am left with the thought that several of the principal actors in my own daily drama must have called out sick and the understudies who stepped in have gotten it all wrong.

Dear MBTA, the bus leaks. Thanks.

Dreadful performance at the bus stop this morning. The two girls drinking coffee have been written out of the script, which is a good thing. They did nothing to advance the plot. However both the sleepy young man and the construction worker have been replaced by an actor playing a homeless man scratching lottery tickets. I suppose the director is going for the whole theatre of the absurd “Waiting for Godot” thing, but I much prefer Thornton Wilder.

The mini-acquaintances that develop among people who share a bus stop are very interesting. I spend ten minutes each afternoon with Short Scruffy Insurance Guy, Quiet Always Wears A Hoodie, and Never Says A Word Don’t Think She Speaks English. We don’t know each other by name. I think that would ruin things. We only know what little we can pick up from each other in whatever small conversations occur as we wait for the bus to round the corner.

Today Short Scruffy Insurance Guy said “You know something? There’s never been an afternoon when we can say that the weather yesterday was just like today. It’s raining or dry, cold or hot, snowing or blowing. But it’s always different.” I had to agree. Quiet Always Wears A Hoodie and Never Says A Word nodded in agreement.

I mean this in the nicest possible way but who the hell buys a big screen TV and then decides to take it home on the bus?

So Short Scruffy Insurance Guy tells me a story about his Aunt. She smoked her entire life. At the age of 80 she had a stroke. She recovered but doesn’t remember that she ever smoked. That’s the good news. The bad news is that she suddenly started swearing. In the middle of last Sunday’s dinner she yelled “f**k” and shocked the entire family.

To the long line of fans waiting for tickets to this morning’s performance of “Waiting For The Bus”, my deepest apologies. The production closed days ago. The director seems to be missing in action and the supporting cast is on strike. I’m currently working on a one man show, but can’t decide between stand up or song and dance.