Chapter6 Bus ride

Destination: AIRPORT

Destination: _________

Destination: Walter Park

The shrill whine of the bus vaguely reminds me of being younger and trying to whistle through my front teeth. The soothing Shhhhh of the stopping bus, the low pressure release as the bus hugs the curb, sets my mind in motion with more subtle traces of childhood memories.

My sudden racing recall, mixed glimpses from the past, is like shuffling through a shoe-box full of unsorted photographs. The images so eerily familiar, yet hazy and too scattered along the time-line of my life to cherish comfortably as my own.

Startled, apparently by only myself and my moment of escape, I suddenly see doors folding open before me and realize that I have become the beginning of a line. I usually feel awkward at this next moment.

Stepping onto the steps of a public city bus, a large city bus driver staring me down, I feel for the oddest reason that the money in my hand, at this moment, will not work in his little machine. Worse yet, my handful of change won’t be enough; a nickel short, and I’ll have to walk. These are my half-thoughts as I slip the coins one by one into the slot & head toward the back of the bus.

I’m holding a briefcase, yet I’m sitting here with nothing to read. Looking around, I’m surprised at how similar every public bus I ride seems to be. The people, of course, change yet there’s this sense of distance from when the tires roll from the curb to when the doors open at each stop. The sound of newspapers rustling, the occasional blips of a whispered conversation, filling the cabin as everyone else draws silent at the same time. I can hear people thinking, completely filled with busy silence.

The man in the tan overcoat hasn’t changed his expression from the time I brushed by him sitting on the bench outside ‘till now. His silence hasn’t stopped, his eyes glowing with thoughts of home & family. So unaffected by everyone around him, he sits in silent reassurance.

The woman in back sits between two children playing tag across her lap, her frustration barely visible on her face. The sound of a baby toy carries throughout the bus. I feel a surge of mixed attention to thoughts of family by those sharing the seats around me.

The children are laughing as they play, without a care in their mind or any notice of those around them. They seem to be drawing more glances, more interest, than anyone or anything else traveling to Walter Park at this moment.

Even the business travelers weighted down with their serious personas, before completely consumed by their business journals, glance readily toward the children’s sounds of joy. A mixed look of wonder & recollection scans their faces, if only briefly, before their gaze is drawn back to the distractions of numbers, columns and graphs waiting impatiently on their laps.

How many people sit silently waiting for the escape of surrounding distractions? How many are silently tuned-in for conversation that never comes? Most of the public feels drawn to those around them, to the interesting mystery & confusion that hints at something worth paying attention to, waiting for a random occurrence.

A man with long, curly gray hair stuffed into his fishing hat bounds next to the bus, hollering soulfully for his ride to stop. The commotion outside is enough to quickly draw the children from their game of tag as they bounce curiously to the window.

A few other passengers willingly donate their silent attention to the crazed character outside, who wants nothing more than to be where they are right now. The bus driver, alerted only by the bouncing cries from the back seat, catches sight of the runner and graciously slows the bus to a halt from its 5mph ascent.

The man heads unquestioningly to the middle seats, as if the decision for him to ride is temporary and up for reevaluation. Wasting not a moment, he dives into his tragic story of loss as he holds up the rooted house plant he must have just dropped outside.

Asking everyone in earshot if they think it has a chance, he quickly switches interest from the blank stares around him, to the cell phone in his pocket. The signal connects, apparently, to his girlfriend or wife who very quickly and in immense detail, receives the shocking news of the now battered plant.

These make up the stories of our lives. The stories the other passengers will have to tell later. Their “annoyance” has just turned into a highlight of their trip & most don’t even notice.

*** Insert explanation of College Thesis***

The bus makes the first stop shortly after the first exit off the interstate. The echoed “tong” of the stop requests startles me to look up, as I notice three hands on the pull wire before the “tong” sounds again.

Three hands pull and only one “tong” sounds.

Are we really as disconnected from each other as it seems?