tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-322492672024-03-07T14:21:54.712-07:00Bus StoriesBusboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.comBlogger514125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-10768932392220139112016-06-05T05:00:00.000-06:002016-06-05T05:04:37.875-06:00BUS STORY # 500 (Service Suspended)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCC7qKyVoYjybbFcG0GYk6KgN48dhsBirer1lgDYxSNX3G6ODbY19VVTiKMnbiKE_NnJKzlqUit53NUXfQCN5GHpNswhiDLMIqokwNY4B1GlTQfvkOKHiM2-Y_F-UXdHzHB1nZXQ/s1600/BUSBOY+no+rip%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCC7qKyVoYjybbFcG0GYk6KgN48dhsBirer1lgDYxSNX3G6ODbY19VVTiKMnbiKE_NnJKzlqUit53NUXfQCN5GHpNswhiDLMIqokwNY4B1GlTQfvkOKHiM2-Y_F-UXdHzHB1nZXQ/s400/BUSBOY+no+rip%5B1%5D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/busboy4/4602314919/">¿Dónde está Busboy?</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/busboy4/">busboy4</a>. Photoshop by <a href="http://skylerrexroad.com/">Skyler Rexroad</a></span>.
</div>
<br />
This is Busboy’s last post.<br />
<br />
It’s time, really. <br />
<br />
I began posting bus stories in August, 2006, when I was a rather wide-eyed newbie to public transportation. The riders, the drivers, the buses, the stories — all were a marvel to me. <br />
<br />
The stories continue to be a marvel to me. But, like me, the stories have begun to slow down. <br />
<br />
For one thing, I don’t hear as well as I used to. A lot of good bus stories have come from overheard conversations. These days, I just don’t hear those conversations unless they’re happening close by or whoever’s speaking has an exceptionally loud and clear voice. <i>Así es la vida</i>. <br />
<br />
When I retired, I lost the regular work commute routes, and along with that, a ridership that was comfortable enough with one another to share stories. I also quit having to take the 50 between Central and the airport. That route may have provided more stories than any other. It certainly provided a lot of interesting ones. <br />
<br />
You might suspect that retirement would also decrease my usage of the bus, and hence my opportunity to come across new stories. Not so. In 2014, I tracked boardings to see if buying an annual pass was worthwhile. I had 580 boardings that year. My work commutes involved between four and six boardings a day. Six a day times 52 weeks comes out to 312 boardings. So I’ve actually had more opportunities to come across a story than when I was working. <br />
<br />
I think another reason for the decrease in stories is the ridership’s increased use of earbuds and headphones. Many of those who do not are scrolling and texting. It is not an environment that lends itself to conversations. <br />
<br />
Finally, there is always the possibility that I don’t see the stories as readily as I did when I was new to riding the bus. It’s a lot like the mountains or the skies out here; you get used to them, and quit seeing them like you did when you first moved here. <br />
<br />
I owe a lot of people a thank you. <br />
<ul>
<li>ABQ RIDE. The improvements in keeping to the schedule and the professionalism of the drivers since 2006 is noteworthy. More, it’s critical to making public transportation in Albuquerque a reasonable option. There’s certainly room for <i>more</i> service, but I don’t think we can get much <i>better</i> service.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The ridership. I’ve read a number of bus blogs from other cities over these past 10 years, and for a city our size, we have a largely well-behaved and considerate ridership in comparison.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The many riders who have shared their stories with me. What a remarkable privilege and experience!</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Blogger, and the Blogger community. I still wonder why someone else would go to the trouble of providing a guy who rides the bus in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the opportunity to tell the whole world about his experiences free of charge. I’m also grateful for the many folks who freely shared their time and knowledge on the Blogger Help forums and other Blogger-focused blogs about how to format, how to create links, how to download from Flickr, and so many other tips that helped make my site do so many more things than I could have imagined when I first set out.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I’m especially grateful to the many Flickr members who gave me permission to use their photographs. So many of those, besides being marvelous in themselves, were perfect for the story I was posting.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I’m grateful to those readers who shared their comments -- or didn’t, but read anyway. There are a few of you who have been faithful readers over the years. I thank you for that compliment, and for the comments and/or emails you've sent when a story provoked reflection. Over the span of Bus Stories, 71 people have signed up as “Followers.” I could never bring myself to activate this function; it felt too self-aggrandizing. Still, I’m grateful for those acknowledgments, and to any of them still reading, thank you.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Finally, I’m grateful to all the other bus bloggers past and present. Finding others made me feel like a member of a little community, and I began keeping links to their blogs along the right-hand margin of Bus Stories. Some of those linked to mine as well, and those were especially meaningful acknowledgments. I’ve had favorites, present and past, but I admire and salute anyone who takes the trouble to write about their experiences on the bus.</li>
</ul>
<br />
And that’s the story. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-52357780299862032442016-05-29T05:00:00.000-06:002016-05-29T06:54:50.503-06:00BUS STORY # 499 (“You Can’t Make Stuff Like This Up”)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYAcBxPBXnYRuQTdmPQ-J_dlvPHDuNWNBI5atoh7636Wx-tmmsenzJPsxJfb0vx8cfRe9ISYRyX5rrc8nUlYV7Pue8a-nHFQio15gNGrI_e_V-8lORuHdHfM41WJBoSIeHmq0kQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-05-14+at+10.36.22+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYAcBxPBXnYRuQTdmPQ-J_dlvPHDuNWNBI5atoh7636Wx-tmmsenzJPsxJfb0vx8cfRe9ISYRyX5rrc8nUlYV7Pue8a-nHFQio15gNGrI_e_V-8lORuHdHfM41WJBoSIeHmq0kQ/s400/Screen+shot+2015-05-14+at+10.36.22+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://footage.framepool.com/en/shot/693617713-truth-message-direction-sign-arrow-object">framepool.com</a></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<i>Disclosure: This week’s Bus Story isn’t really a bus story. Over the years, friends have asked me about particular riders’ stories, and if I thought the rider was telling me the truth. Stories that come to mind are </i><a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2009/08/bus-story-147-davids-story-i-cant.html" style="font-style: italic;">David’s Story</a> and <i>Sarah, parts</i> <i><a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2011/02/bus-story-223-sarah-part-one-back-to.htmlone">one </a> and <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2011/02/bus-story-224-sarah-part-two-lonely.html">two</a>. The question got me to thinking about truth, but also about stories -- what they are, where they come from, what they do, and so forth. Here are my thoughts.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
I have a good friend, a history buff, who sends me a lot of small, obscure, and immensely fascinating stories from the various biographies and histories he’s been reading. He’s fond of closing each story with the comment, “You can’t make stuff like this up.”<br />
<br />
His comment is a commonplace used by a lot of folks to express the conventional wisdom that “truth is stranger than fiction.”<br />
<br />
The assumption, of course, is that truth is <i>different</i> from fiction.<br />
<br />
The problem, of course, is that “truth” is different from “fact,” and the two words are indiscriminately interchanged, one for the other.<br />
<br />
Despite having numerous opportunities to learn this lesson (the best opportunity being my biblical studies), it wasn’t until I was in my 40s when this lesson became perfectly, permanently clear. <br />
<br />
I’d grown up hearing my mother’s stories about her and my father’s families, and it never occurred to me that these were anything other than the way it was.<br />
<br />
Then, a year before she died, my maternal grandmother came out to Albuquerque for a visit. She spent three days in my home, and during those three days, she told me her life story.<br />
<br />
She’d rise early. I’d put on a pot of coffee and join her at the dining room table, and she’d begin remembering. We never went anywhere. In fact, she never changed out of her pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown. Or at least that’s how I remember it.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, I’ve concluded she had some sense that her time was short, and that awareness triggered her need to tell her story -- the whole story.<br />
<br />
I’d seen this phenomenon before, and I’ve seen it since. And I’ve come to think of it as, among other things, a dress rehearsal for the interview at the Pearly Gates. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to my grandmother’s visit.<br />
<br />
I learned a few stories I’d never heard before, all of them interesting not just for their newness, but for the way they added to and made more complex -- you might say made more fully human -- the family members I knew from my mother’s stories.<br />
<br />
But the real eye-opener was hearing my grandmother tell the same stories I already knew from my mother. In my grandmother’s telling, something had changed. It wasn’t the characters or the timelines. What changed was what each story was telling me about the family members in the stories, and about the tellers of the stories themselves.<br />
<br />
What changed was the truth.<br />
<br />
My first attempt at understanding what was happening here was to try to figure out which version of a given story -- my mother’s or my grandmother’s -- was the true one. I hadn’t quite gotten the lesson yet.<br />
<br />
The lesson became clearer a few years later.<br />
<br />
My maternal aunt was living in Los Angeles when I learned she had metastatic breast cancer. I’d always liked my aunt because, as I knew from my mother’s stories and from my growing-up memories of visits, she was both independent and tough-minded, and a loyal and generous friend.<br />
<br />
I flew out to LA a few times to visit with her, and to satisfy an adult desire to get to know her better. During those visits, I heard yet again the same stories I’d heard from my mother and my grandmother -- and which in her telling became yet another set of unique versions of the same stories.<br />
<br />
These stories had been two-dimensional before. And each version had lain one next to the other like two competing translations of a biblical text, only one of which could be the true. My aunt’s retelling made all of them three-dimensional, each with its own texture and depth and coloring and shading and nuance. And now, each version mediated the other two, so that, when all was said and done, I ended up synthesizing my own understanding of each set of their stories, and my own understanding of these more fully-realized women. I now had my own versions of these stories.<br />
<br />
Imagine this: You’ve spent your life looking into a room through a window in the west wall. You know where the table is, what the upholstery of the couch looks like, the color and pattern of the wallpaper. You know exactly what this room looks like. Then one day, someone takes you to a window in the north wall of the very same room. Except now, it doesn’t look exactly like the same room. The west wall turns out to be plastered in pink, which changes the lighting. And the door to the hallway is slightly out of plumb. And you hadn’t seen that teddy bear siting askew on the throw. <i>Teddy bear?</i> And then you find a window in the east wall...<br />
<br />
Or, if you will, consider the synoptic Gospels.<br />
<br />
That is how I came to understand my mother and my grandmother and my aunt, each of them, was telling me the truth.<br />
<br />
Years later, my daughter married a man who performed monologues in a series he called “All Stories Are Fiction.” The monologues were autobiographical, but what made them unique is that they weren’t memorized pieces. Rather, each performance was recreated extemporaneously. One of my sons described the process as telling stories every night that were “the same — but different.”<br />
<br />
I came to understand that, on any given night, I was hearing the story that was true at the moment of its telling. The implications were that the stories I’d heard from my grandmother and aunt were also unique versions of their own stories told at a particular time to a particular audience: me, but also to themselves.<br />
<br />
But what if the story being told is fabricated? What if the facts of the story turn out to be untrue? <br />
<br />
We now know that, in fact, George Washington did not chop down the cherry tree, Davy Crockett did not kill him a b’ar when he was only three, and our own Billy the Kid did not kill 21 men before his 21st birthday.<br />
<br />
But how many of us would think of challenging the truth told by each story -- that George Washington was an honest man, that Davy Crockett was a formidable (if not precocious) hunter, that Billy the Kid was an adept shootist?<br />
<br />
One conclusion seems pretty obvious: “truth” and “fact” are not just different from one another, but sometimes get in one another’s way.<br />
<br />
Truth doesn’t need facts so much as it needs a story.<br />
<br />
Over the span of Bus Stories, I’ve been privileged to hear several remarkable stories. It has always been in the back of my mind that any of these stories could have been fabricated -- whether on the spot, as some kind of wondrous improvisation, or as some pathological construct habitually told, or as simply an artful elaboration on bare bones -- the storyteller’s own, or someone else’s.<br />
<br />
In which case, fiction could surely be construed as much, much stranger than fact.<br />
<br />
Even if this were the case, I’d argue the fiction being told is a personal expression of the teller’s truth. All the story would need is decoding, much as I tried doing with my troubled co-rider's story in <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2011/11/bus-story-261-no-good-samaritan-no-svc.html">No Good Samaritan</a>.<br />
<br />
Why do we tell stories anyway?<br />
<br />
Essentially, we tell stories to make sense of our experiences.<br />
<br />
These experiences are a bewildering maelstrom of perceptions and thoughts and memories and emotions. They’re made all the more bewildering because they’re occurring simultaneously in two different worlds: the one we know and understand, and the other, bigger one.<br />
<br />
We tell our stories to impose order on such chaos, to sort out what is happening to us, inside and out, and make it meaningful. And meaningful in a way we can live with.<br />
<br />
We tell our stories to others primarily for validation. This is how it is. This is who we are. This is what we did and why. And this what they did and why. And that’s the truth. Believe me.<br />
<br />
It takes an enormous amount of creativity to tell a story that accommodates all this!<br />
<br />
And so we construct our personal histories, our family histories, our national histories. And we change them -- sometimes consciously, but mostly unconsciously, I think -- when they quit serving the need to provide meaning and comfort. When they quit working for us. When they quit being true.<br />
<br />
As for the facts? They endure.<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-73000726586378645452016-05-22T05:00:00.000-06:002016-05-22T05:02:22.829-06:00BUS STORY # 498 (Jeffrey, Part Four)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpM8l2kWsCasWHN8APKTHqVU5OJa4Yq2ga_hnlyv9aFHMPUPFOnuyqMs7EVKMkcAc5jBkdKb6808RQIFqRjzMHrMIiFdz4ZZyFO3YnW06_gHKwPwwhnfZ9AFedunJKhAkMP1nFA/s1600/100_4736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpM8l2kWsCasWHN8APKTHqVU5OJa4Yq2ga_hnlyv9aFHMPUPFOnuyqMs7EVKMkcAc5jBkdKb6808RQIFqRjzMHrMIiFdz4ZZyFO3YnW06_gHKwPwwhnfZ9AFedunJKhAkMP1nFA/s400/100_4736.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<i>You can read Parts One, Two and Three <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-495-jeffrey-part-one.html">here</a>, <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-496-jeffrey-part-two.html">here</a> and <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-497-jeffrey-part-three.html">here</a></i>. <br />
<br />
<br />
Friday morning, I sent Jeffrey* an email: “Testing...” <br />
<br />
Sunday, having heard nothing back, I resent the email. <br />
<br />
I saw him the following Wednesday. Our greeting was unusually subdued. I told him I had emailed. He said he had not gotten it. I verified the address. He said he would look again and send me an email if he found nothing. <br />
<br />
And then he apologized and said he was distracted. His prostate cancer had taken a new direction: he was now being worked up for bladder cancer. <br />
<br />
He was frustrated by his experience with the UNMH health care system. Whether it was an appointment or a referral or a diagnostic test, nothing could be scheduled for less than a month out. <br />
<br />
He was seeing clinicians who were burnt out by an unending procession of patients who never seemed to understand their diseases and their processes, or who were non-compliant, or who simply failed to keep their appointments with any regularity, but did expect to be cured when they did show up, or who were drug-seekers. <br />
<br />
Surely they recognized you are not in any of those discouraging categories, I replied. <br />
<br />
Yes, he acknowledged, but whatever good intentions they may have had during his visit were quickly buried under the deadening routine of the futile practice of medicine. <br />
<br />
He spoke of not being ready to give up this life, of not having a family of his own, just his mother and a few close friends. Very few. “I am a solitary.” I wondered if his “neglected girlfriend” was still in the picture. I remembered how, when we had briefly discussed getting together and had exchanged emails, he had said he preferred the “epistolary form” himself.<br />
<br />
I told him I understood his distraction, and that I was sorry for all he was going through. <br />
<br />
He rallied himself, grasped my hand with both of his, and said, “It’s a good life. It’s a beautiful life. Take care.” And so we went on our ways. <br />
<br />
I missed my regular bus that evening. <br />
<br />
Between that autumn afternoon and Christmas, we exchanged a few emails. His were somewhat cryptic, and I sensed his attention was elsewhere. I repeated my desire to meet for coffee whenever he wished, and left the invitation at that. <br />
<br />
I did not hear from him again. <br />
<br />
It is possible he’s died by now. I think about that, and I think about whether I should have been more persistent. I tell myself it was better not to intrude, that he had made it clear he was, in his words, “a solitary,” that this was serious business he was dealing with, that I was an email away. I tell myself I had no business putting my curiosity or a good story into this mix. And all of that is as true as how good it sounds. <br />
<br />
But I also know the relief I felt... feel... at not having to be involved any deeper in the dying of this stranger. <br />
<br />
Somehow, that relief is no relief at all. <br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
*Real name changed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
Addendum<br />
<br />
<br />
All this happened over four years ago. Last summer, I was riding the Montgomery bus when I saw Jeffrey board. He looked just the way I remembered him, clothes and all. He sat down in a seat across the aisle and one row behind me. I turned and looked. He sensed someone staring, looked at me, broke into a big grin, then got up and sat down beside me. <br />
<br />
I think he was genuinely happy to see me. I asked him how he was doing, and he said he was doing very well, “one day at a time.” He didn’t offer any particulars, and I didn’t ask. He was now involved in a men’s cancer support group, and happy to be so. I asked him how he came to be on the Montgomery bus (I didn’t know he was a rider until now), and he explained he was returning home from a dental appointment. <br />
<br />
He asked how I was doing, and I told him I was now retired and thoroughly enjoying myself. That pleased him. <br />
<br />
My stop came before his. I wished him well, and asked if he still had my email address. He did, he did. I told him retirement made me much more available these days. I don’t remember exactly how he handled this, just that he was gracefully noncommittal. And that was that. <br />
<br />
Whenever I think of him now, I think of him as alive. It feels much better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXFIo3pPj2sCem7L_Ja639cN7r80SnzyWnlcergex-HEzEI2m7k95QmCclITL-5QqdhIv-wqb2hZdNyYJNEuQVJWYp4UuJWSefAseQzUTWqIprFUJ_G0mcNpk6Cj7yH_mfDJqtQ/s1600/12096113_10153625290627622_3774066173843804755_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXFIo3pPj2sCem7L_Ja639cN7r80SnzyWnlcergex-HEzEI2m7k95QmCclITL-5QqdhIv-wqb2hZdNyYJNEuQVJWYp4UuJWSefAseQzUTWqIprFUJ_G0mcNpk6Cj7yH_mfDJqtQ/s400/12096113_10153625290627622_3774066173843804755_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This remarkable photo was taken by former ABQ RIDE driver Peter Reynolds. It is downloaded from the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/abqride/photos/a.10151268141717622.487981.274510027621/10153625290627622/?type=3&theater">photos section of the Facebook page for ABQ RIDE</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-63045887549613270602016-05-15T05:00:00.000-06:002016-05-15T05:00:00.183-06:00BUS STORY # 497 (Jeffrey, Part Three)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5E7g6IHa8ojn12F5WlKyEg9oFB3SHPvWFzn6SId_70WY5-Fz5RDGiBPwxtnr4aR1sdaxVaXDX9h5Pvm4pkS6bcK27D0K98UiPinZsY_w93hCSENiXJUoLWLYJPWYZsCRZG1FK6g/s1600/IMG_0153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5E7g6IHa8ojn12F5WlKyEg9oFB3SHPvWFzn6SId_70WY5-Fz5RDGiBPwxtnr4aR1sdaxVaXDX9h5Pvm4pkS6bcK27D0K98UiPinZsY_w93hCSENiXJUoLWLYJPWYZsCRZG1FK6g/s400/IMG_0153.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The UNM Duck Pond. Downloaded from <a href="http://thepack.unm.edu/satkar-t/trying-stay-fit-fall/#.Viziu2RJZyo">The Pack</a>.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>You can read Parts One and Two <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-495-jeffrey-part-one.html">here</a> and <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-496-jeffrey-part-two.html">here</a></i>. <br />
<br />
<br />
I trust you already understand from my telling this story that I had decided to look for some way to meet with Jeffrey* off-campus. <br />
<br />
I imagined an exchange of email addresses at our next encounter, with a commitment to work out a meeting some weekend at a coffee shop convenient to both of us. <br />
<br />
And you probably suspect what I already knew not all that deeply in my heart: it was curiosity as much as concern that drove my decision. <br />
<br />
Who <i>was</i> this guy? Inquiring minds want to know... <br />
<br />
It wasn’t until the end of October that I had another option to take the UNM campus route to Lomas. I was feeling some urgency because I was being transferred to another office in another part of town in a couple of weeks. My days of crossing the UNM campus to catch the 50 were numbered. <br />
<br />
The 50 was late. We had a new driver, and he was learning the route. By the time we got to UNM, I was already close to 10 minutes later than normal. <br />
<br />
Sure enough, we did not cross paths that day. <br />
<br />
Tuesday, the bus and I were back on schedule. But Jeffrey was not. <br />
<br />
I began to wonder if there were only certain days he took this walk. Maybe it was only on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays, and that’s why I didn’t see him Tuesday. <br />
<br />
Which made me realize how unobservant I’d been the last five months. <br />
<br />
Now I began to think. I had been seeing him at the same time on a somewhat regular basis from roughly May through October. From a teacher’s or student’s perspective, that would cover the end of a spring semester, two summer semesters, and much of the fall semester. How likely was it either would have the same schedule all four semesters? <br />
<br />
I thought about the time I’d seen him crossing Lomas, coming from -- I assumed -- the University Hospital. Maybe he was an outpatient coming from regularly scheduled treatments. Maybe he was a health care worker or some other type of hospital employee. Maybe he was both. <br />
<br />
Wednesday I drove -- the demands of my work schedule for the day. That left me twice-disappointed. I have come to feel no joy whenever I have to use the car for work. And now, I was missing an opportunity to run into Jeffrey. <br />
<br />
Thursday was looking like another strikeout until I was close to the Duck Pond. I caught site of him coming from the left -- a different direction -- and felt the combined emotions of elation and apprehension. I wanted to know more and I didn’t know what I might be getting myself into by finding out. <br />
<br />
This time, he was wearing light khaki pants, a white collarless shirt buttoned to the neck, and a sports coat of some gray-blue weave. It made him look clerical.
The courier pouch was gone. He was carrying instead a black, zippered planner. <br />
<br />
“Jeffrey,” I called, and stopped. <br />
<br />
He called out my name, and walked over to me. We shook hands. <br />
<br />
I told him our last encounter had made me want to know more of his story, and that wasn’t going to happen on these chance encounters, especially since I was not going to be coming this way after next week. <br />
<br />
He agreed the campus encounters were not the place to do this. He was on his way home himself and had a hungry cat and a neglected girlfriend to take care of. <br />
<br />
I asked if we could exchange emails, and said I hoped we could get together for coffee sometime and exchange our stories. He seemed delighted, and gave me his email address along with this provocative comment: “I prefer the epistolary form myself. I’m rather old-fashioned in that way.” The exchange made, we shook hands again, and went our separate ways. <br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
*Real name changed.<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-75292930108821328922016-05-08T05:00:00.000-06:002016-05-08T05:00:16.100-06:00BUS STORY # 496 (Jeffrey, Part Two)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sVgXTjyHgwOopdPBJCaCq0hxsQL_r6Gc8MszYe2MwGO374zG9krvFbo0Fk6anrP53s7xtSQess2IFupvszS7_cfY55fXrj-YihLkVbm3axhHgDLwc7hdo4DJXUdFZlPFMBbbKQ/s1600/Hand-Hug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sVgXTjyHgwOopdPBJCaCq0hxsQL_r6Gc8MszYe2MwGO374zG9krvFbo0Fk6anrP53s7xtSQess2IFupvszS7_cfY55fXrj-YihLkVbm3axhHgDLwc7hdo4DJXUdFZlPFMBbbKQ/s400/Hand-Hug.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://lonerwolf.com/body-language-handshakes/">Loner Wolf</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<i>You can read Part One <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2016/05/bus-story-495-jeffrey-part-one.html">here</a>. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
I think it was in September, some three or four months after our first encounter on the campus, before we exchanged words again. He reached out as if to shake hands. I reciprocated. He took my hand in both of his and, looking me in the eyes, said, “Safe travel, my friend.” And released my hand. <br />
<br />
I was taken by surprise, but managed something like “Thank you, same to you.” <br />
<br />
And off we went on our separate ways. <br />
<br />
He had always been pleasant on our encounters, but now I got to wondering if an outwardly-projected inner happiness was something more than conventional manners. I saw something in his eyes, but I also heard something -- a warmness, a gentleness -- in his voice. <br />
<br />
I also heard in his voice a foreign accent. Despite the earlier “namaste” gesture, I had already ruled out India because his complexion did not match any of the skin tones I’d come to identify as “Indian.” Now, his accent did the same. Other than that he was not Indian, however, I was clueless. My best guess was “the movies.” All I needed was the title, actor, and role... <br />
<br />
After this particular encounter, he would sometimes say something in passing -- “Safe travel” or “Take care” -- or we would simply smile at one another. <br />
<br />
One afternoon in late October, when neither of us was wearing our hats, he pulled up in front of me, wished me good health, and hoped I was “taking good care of [my] prostate.” <br />
<br />
What does one say to a greeting like this? <br />
<br />
After recovering my senses, I said I was doing my best, then added it sounded like he was having trouble with his. <br />
<br />
He was. Cancer. He’d gone through treatments, but had been told there was probably metastasis. He was going through periodic tests to see if it had migrated, and to where. <br />
<br />
This last explanation is my summary of what he said. <br />
<br />
In fact, his description was a masterpiece of elocution that managed to convey the facts without saying “cancer” or “metastasis” or even “tests.” Even the way he described metastasis conjured up the image of a malignant entity boarding a bus and riding around the city until it found a stop to its liking. <br />
<br />
I asked him how he was dealing with the uncertainty. I remember he prefaced his answer with “Given my Church of England upbringing and my Augustinian framework...” <br />
<br />
He explained he had moved beyond those moral and philosophical underpinnings without abandoning them. And now, listening again to his declamation, I was thinking “British education... The King James and Book of Common Prayer... Shakespeare... Dickens... All those Victorian essayists...” All this was in his vocabulary and his cadence, intermingled with what I was now guessing might be a black South African accent. <br />
<br />
When he was finished, he had basically come to where most of us do in circumstances like his: he was taking it one day at a time. More, he was optimistic, whatever the outcome. <br />
<br />
I confess I was also thinking I would probably miss my bus because of this conversation. <br />
<br />
It turned out that I did not -- by about two minutes is all. But I found myself wondering why in the world would I worry about this when I was in the middle of an interesting story -- two interesting stories, his and him -- and when I knew perfectly well the next bus would be there in 20 minutes. <br />
<br />
And I think the answer is: fear of getting involved. <br />
<br />
In the maybe five minutes this discussion took place, I had already begun working out how we might get together for coffee, and when, and not just to hear all his story, but to find out what kind of support system he had here, which included the possibility that he had no family here, and who knew about friends... Which left me thinking about the way my own Roman Catholic upbringing and Thomistic framework would be driving me far beyond telling the story. <br />
<br />
Before we went our separate ways, when we were shaking hands goodbye, he told me his name: Jeffrey.* And I told him mine. <br />
<br />
It would be a few days before I would be taking the bus home from work again, and it gave me time to think about the next step.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
*Real name changed.<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-39849224379522096462016-05-01T05:00:00.000-06:002016-05-01T07:34:38.919-06:00BUS STORY # 495 (Jeffrey, Part One)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWl-JrFTixIccb2fDolFSDv4SdgsyPtp836-nYwzVPlyzeRg5NXApfb70OesRcxjkbK-Z-ONOtyYxqD-ZgSWCMsv5BRP4hVZhI7TUkkP_Z6aVUITh1j3ZfegCf6r9jdVOpa5oBQ/s1600/pDSP1-20442485p275w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWl-JrFTixIccb2fDolFSDv4SdgsyPtp836-nYwzVPlyzeRg5NXApfb70OesRcxjkbK-Z-ONOtyYxqD-ZgSWCMsv5BRP4hVZhI7TUkkP_Z6aVUITh1j3ZfegCf6r9jdVOpa5oBQ/s320/pDSP1-20442485p275w.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://www.dickssportinggoods.com/product/index.jsp?productId=56464536&camp=CSE:GooglePLA:56464536:20442485:FISHING%20APPAREL&CAGPSPN=pla&CAWELAID=120">Dick's Sporting Goods</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
It was early on, when all we were doing was acknowledging one another with a grin when we passed each other crossing the UNM campus, that I got the sense there would be a story here.<br />
<br />
I wasn’t sure it could be called a bus story. For one thing, he is not (to the best of my knowledge) a rider. For another, the encounters were not on the bus or at a bus stop. Whenever I opted to catch the 11 by walking across campus to Lomas (as opposed to walking over to The Frontier to catch the Rapid), we would, more often than not, it seems, cross paths. <br />
<br />
I decided it is a bus story. For one thing, I was still between buses and on my way home. For another, there would have been no encounters if I hadn’t been taking the bus. But mostly, it’s a story I’d like to tell. <br />
<br />
The first time we crossed paths was probably in late spring or early summer. I remember he was wearing white pants and a white shirt – or rather, off-white, and in a style that registered as “equatorial colonial.” I’d like to tell you he was wearing sandals or some kind of woven shoe, and he may well have been, but I don’t recall. <br />
<br />
Brown-skinned, with a close-cropped, curly, black and gray beard. Rimless eyeglasses. Later, I would note the brown leather courier bag which made me think he might be a graduate student or a professor, and the silver cuff bracelet he wore on his right wrist. <br />
<br />
But what made the first encounter memorable was this: We were both wearing the same make and style and color hat, and we both recognized our hat on the head of the other. <br />
<br />
We grinned at each other as we passed by. <br />
<br />
I remember this happening somewhere between the fountain and the Duck Pond. In any case, I took it for one of those random, one-time, what-are-the-odds encounters in which we momentarily shared in the fellowship of the hat. <br />
<br />
When I saw him a few days later, in almost the same place, we were already grinning at each other from afar. I began to look for him from that point on whenever I walked across the campus. <br />
<br />
Over time, our encounters ranged across the campus so that it was obvious we were walking the same exact path through the campus, in opposite directions.
This route is neither a straight line nor a line without a number of options that would still get each of us to where we were going. Like the hat, it was yet another what-are-the-odds coincidence. Then one afternoon, I was early enough to catch him crossing Lomas from University Hospital. Possibilities other than UNM professor or graduate student now loomed. <br />
<br />
I was the first to speak. <br />
<br />
It was during monsoon season. The sky had darkened, the wind was up, and rain had begun to spatter the walkway. The hat, meant to protect me from the sun, now
kept the rain off my glasses. <br />
<br />
When I saw him coming my way, I saw he was bare-headed. <br />
<br />
“Where’s your hat?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Oh, it’s right here,” he said, smiling and patting his bag. <br />
<br />
Sometime after that, as we were approaching and had already started smiling, he brought his hands up to his chest, placed the palms together with the fingers straight up, and gave me a little bow. <br />
<br />
That was when I knew it was just a matter of waiting for the story to unfold. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-30360488633306670882016-04-24T05:00:00.000-06:002016-04-24T05:00:04.920-06:00BUS STORY # 494 (Portrait # 33: Soap Opera)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://dict.space.4goo.net/dict?q=soap+opera">soap opera</a></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<i>I watched this story unfold when I was still working and taking the same bus at the same time every work morning. I retired before I saw any resolution. I still think about these two folks, though, and wonder about the story I didn’t get.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
I really don’t remember which of them I saw first. Sometimes he’s on the bus, and she’s not. And vice versa. And I know of at least one time they didn’t sit together when they were both on the bus.<br />
<br />
They are both good looking, and I remember being aware of them individually before I began thinking of them as a couple. <br />
<br />
He has a lean, ascetic look that makes him seem taller than he really is. Salt and pepper hair, just long enough not to be short. His glasses aren’t stylish -- lots of glass, little frame -- but they complement his usually impassively serious face. He wears jeans, sometimes blue, sometimes black, always neatly pressed, which reinforces my sense of an underlying fastidiousness. I can’t get a fix on his age -- he could be anywhere from mid-40s to early 50s. Whatever his age, he looks good. <br />
<br />
Where he’s angular and lean, she’s soft and round. And where his face reflects a fine-boned Spanish-Navajo heritage, hers reflects the dominance of the Aztec. Prominent cheeks and jaw, strong nose. Large dark eyes. Lustrous black hair worn straight and falling just short of her shoulders. I’d put her in her mid-40s. She usually dresses in black -- black jackets and coats, black pants or long black skirts, opaque black stockings and black, serious shoes. Sometimes with a splash of color from a silky blue or maroon blouse. She looks good. <br />
<br />
She boards farther down the route than he, and when the aisle seat next to him is empty, which it is most of the time, and which by now I’ve concluded is meant as an invitation, she goes to sit by him. That’s the only time I see him smile, and I take it for a giveaway. <br />
<br />
They talk very quietly and, I think, gently. They don’t often look at one another when they talk -- she will look directly at him more often than he will at her -- but you can see the attentiveness in the way both incline their heads. They sometimes gesture when they talk, but they keep those gestures economical and tidily confined. <br />
<br />
The time I saw them not sit together, she had boarded with a small suitcase on wheels. There wasn’t room in the seat, so she took a bench seat facing the back door and parked the bag in front of her. He stayed in his seat. I remember thinking there was room for him if he wanted to sit next to her, but there was also another guy sitting at the other end of the three-seater. I don’t know if it was our Albuquerque tendency to try and leave an empty seat between strangers, or a reluctance to have a conversation that might be overheard, that caused him to stay put. Or, depending on what story might be concocted from what we have here, some other reason entirely. <br />
<br />
But just before her stop -- she gets off before he does -- she stood up and went over to his seat, leaned over a bit, and said something to him. He smiled, as if pleased to have heard what he heard, shook his head yes, got up, and went over to where her suitcase was sitting. At the stop, she exited, and he carried her suitcase out to the sidewalk for her. A thank you and smiles were exchanged, and he got back on the bus and took his seat. <br />
<br />
That was a more effusive parting than normal. I never see any long, lingering looks when she gets to her stop. What I do see is a normal, have-a-good-day kind of exchange, and that’s that. She heads north and doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t watch her go. <br />
<br />
He gets off at the next stop and heads south. <br />
<br />
I really have no idea what the story is here. For all I know, they could be family, or old friends who used to work together, or just a <i>muy simpático</i> pair of co-riders. <br />
<br />
Or already married to others. (Yes, of <i>course</i> I’ve looked for a ring on the left ring finger. Nothing on either one. Which, I know, doesn’t prove anything.) <br />
<br />
Whatever the story is, it’s a lot like watching a soap opera: the story unfolds very, very slowly.<br />
<br />
Just one more reason to keep me riding. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-44685322390266764632016-04-17T05:00:00.000-06:002016-04-17T05:00:04.745-06:00BUS STORY # 493 (Other Voices, Other Buses)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photo-bus-peoples-image4350860">Dreamstime</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
I don’t remember when I first discovered there were other bus bloggers out there. Carla Saulter’s “Bus Chick” was my first discovery, and she’d been at it longer than I.<br />
<br />
Then my daughter introduced me to “The Subway Chronicles,” a remarkably literate series of essays by various New Yorkers about their experiences on the subway. <br />
<br />
I began putting links to these and other blogs in my sidebar, and the format evolved to the list of current blogs you can see there now, followed by another list of “gone but not forgotten” blogs that have been abandoned but are still accessible. (A couple of fine ones have been dismantled, including “The Subway Chronicles.” “The Blood Bus,” a Glasgow bus driver’s raucous blog, also comes to mind.) <br />
<br />
I found most of these blogs during my weekly search for “This Week’s Featured Bus Story,” another sidebar edition which allowed me to share other people’s bus stories. <br />
<br />
Near the end of 2008, it occurred to me that I really should have been saving those stories, and so I began doing just that in a blog I titled “Other Bus Stories,” and adding it to the current blog roll. <br />
<br />
I have my favorites. When I began saving the weekly stories, I began labeling my favorites as “a Top Ten Bus Stories nominee.” By now, I have almost twice that number so labeled. So I’ve sorted out my top ten favorites and present them here, in chronological order. <br />
<br />
<br />
December 3, 2007, from Minneapolis: “<a href="http://otherstories1.blogspot.com/2007/12/from-minneapolis-his-teeth-were-biting.html">His teeth were biting my...</a>” by Jill via <a href="http://www.bustales.com/"> “Bus Tales”</a>.<br />
“Bus Tales,” like “The Subway Chronicles,” was a blog made up of the contributions of its many riders. Unlike the Chronicles, the quality of the writing and the stories varied widely. This story still makes me laugh. It’s a wonderful example of that bus weirdness that does happen from time to time, but Jill’s experience is as benign as it is weird. I admire her assessment of what was happening, and her compassionate handling of the situation. <br />
<br />
February 25, 2009, from NYC: “<a href="http://otherstories1.blogspot.com/2009/03/from-nyc-million-stories-bus-justice-by.html">Bus Justice</a>,” by Andrew Tavani via New York Press. <br />
A powerful story that evoked mixed feelings of righteous satisfaction and an uneasy conscience over just how <i>compos mentis</i> the old man really was. <br />
<br />
March 12, 2012, from Silverwood, Michigan: “<a href="http://phoenixdownfarm.blogspot.com/2012/03/open-letter-to-weird-guy-on-my-bus-in.html">An open letter to the weird guy on my bus in 1968</a>,” by Pony via her blog, “<a href="http://phoenixdownfarm.blogspot.com/">PhoenixDown Farm</a>.”<br />
Probably all of us are familiar with this kind of retrospective reflection on a past experience that seemed unimportant or unpleasant at the time, but ended up having a surprising impact on our lives. I’ve seen several bus stories that explore this experience, but this one was especially sweet. <br />
<br />
April 14, 2012, from Portland, Oregon: “<a href="http://originalcreator.blogspot.com/2012/04/scam-artist-rips-off-innocent-citizen.html">Scam Artist Rips Off Innocent Citizen</a>,” by Nickareeno via his blog, “<a href="http://originalcreator.blogspot.com/">Sardines Are Only Packed Once</a>.” <br />
Boy, do I recognize this story and all the feelings that go with it! Nicareeno’s posts have been featured several times on “Other Bus Stories.” <br />
<br />
November 14, 2012, from NYC: “<a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/11/14/beauty-on-the-bus/?_r=0">Beauty on the Bus</a>,” by Susan Heath for <i>The New York Times</i>. <br />
Sweetness and kindness in the big city! We could do with a lot more of both. <br />
<br />
March 2, 2013, from Edinburgh, Scotland: “<a href="http://notreadingonthebus.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-last-etruscan.html">The last Etruscan</a>,” by “A Late Starter in Edinburgh” via her blog, “<a href="http://notreadingonthebus.blogspot.com/">Not Reading On the Bus</a>.”<br />
A lovely story and the final post by one of my favorite bloggers. I have assumed from the writing the author is female, but there is another author from Edinburgh famous for his extraordinary ability to write from the female perspective: Alexander McCall Smith. Whoever “Late Starter” might be, the writing here, and throughout the blog, is extraordinary. I still miss it. <br />
<br />
June 30, 2013, from Boston: “<a href="http://www.bostonglobe.com/magazine/2013/06/29/from-stranger-bus-advice-worth-listening/3pPTmmU4D0gJlRUNzT69dO/story.html">Strangers on a bus</a>,” by Sarah Kess for <i>The Boston Globe</i>. <br />
Another retrospective, and a startling, “you are there” story told by a woman witnessing another young woman’s public pain and embarrassment, watching that woman rebuff another, older woman trying to help, and, finally, her own personal reflection on what she learned from the experience about the kind of person she wants to be. This one has stayed with me. <br />
<br />
July 22, 2014, from Seattle: “<a href="https://rlsherman.wordpress.com/2014/07/22/bus-story-vanishing-reason/">Vanishing Reason</a>,” by Richard Isherman via his blog, “<a href="https://rlsherman.wordpress.com/">Bus Stories: Observations on Life in Transit</a>.”<br />
Richard Isherman is another of my favorite bloggers. His closely observed, very well written stories are often fanciful musings on what he’s observing. They’re literate and witty, usually amusing and always insightful. This one, however, is one powerful heartbreaker. <br />
<br />
February 5, 2015, from Seattle: “<a href="http://www.nathanvass.com/the-view-from-nathans-bus/different-sides-more-than-one-way-through-life">Different Sides (More Than One Way Through Life)</a>,” by Nathan Vass via his blog, “<a href="http://www.nathanvass.com/the-view-from-nathans-bus">The View From Nathan’s Bus</a>.”<br />
Nathan Vass is a bus driver for Seattle’s King County Metro. He’s a prolific blogger, with a fine ear and extraordinary talent for converting how people actually sound when they talk into comprehensible written dialogue. He’s also attentive and compassionate to a degree I find both astounding and daunting. This story is a remarkable slice of life, and I think we’re fortunate Nathan was there to hear it and pass it on to us. <br />
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August 5, 2015, from Portland, Oregon: “<a href="http://trimetdiaries.com/2015/08/in-heat/">In Heat</a>,” by Bill Reagan via the blog, “<a href="http://trimetdiaries.com/">Trimet Diaries</a>.”<br />
Bill Reagan is yet another of my favorite bloggers whose stories have frequently been featured in my side panel. It would have been hard to pick a top favorite of his stories had this one not come along. This is a story I haven’t seen on the bus myself, yet I immediately recognized it because, like Bob Seger, I remember, I remember, I remember... Not that I was ever one for making public displays of affection. But I was definitely a boy who had no idea “how little he understood” the young woman of his desires, and how troubling that was to the young woman in question. Reading this story now, at my age, makes me wince for the both of them.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
I don’t have a corresponding top ten favorite fictional bus stories. But who doesn’t love Kramer’s bus story from “The Fire,” the nineteenth episode in season five of the NBC sitcom, “Seinfeld”? Besides, as any longtime urban-dwelling bus commuter knows, it’s not all that beyond the realm of possibility. <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cmlCAhrAWYw" width="459"></iframe><br />
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<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-71887591190249827352016-04-10T05:00:00.000-06:002016-04-10T05:00:06.077-06:00BUS STORY 492 (Time Was...)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtB_KbK-y_6hUN314ah509oj3pKI3bnZHezfUO5PcCywW-jWNOeOGbWDfaZigKNMc62EC8DYH_0zZ22WrXimhZLtwSRj8wtjSW4UHl1qnY3cY5Yw3iYBt4kj5tbvvyMShmwEohg/s1600/15228138540_b36968a1d9_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtB_KbK-y_6hUN314ah509oj3pKI3bnZHezfUO5PcCywW-jWNOeOGbWDfaZigKNMc62EC8DYH_0zZ22WrXimhZLtwSRj8wtjSW4UHl1qnY3cY5Yw3iYBt4kj5tbvvyMShmwEohg/s400/15228138540_b36968a1d9_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">“<a href="http://flic.kr/p/pcEc3L">The simple joys of life can be done alone,</a>” by Steve Baker</span></td></tr>
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<br />
I’m meeting someone for lunch. The trip requires one transfer, and I’ve just taken a seat on the bench to wait for it. At the other end of the bench is a little old lady. I nod hello.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, sir, but do you happen to have a cigarette?” <br />
<br />
She’s toothless, but she puts a lot of effort into making sure she articulates as clearly as possible. <br />
<br />
“No, ma’am, I don’t. Sorry.” <br />
<br />
“You’re one of them that don’t smoke.” <br />
<br />
She says it more as an observation than an accusation. <br />
<br />
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm. <br />
<br />
We sit there quietly for a while. <br />
<br />
Then she calls out, “Sister! Sister!” <br />
<br />
I look over at her. She’s looking at a car directly in front of us, in the middle lane. Black car, nice car, driven by a young black woman. <br />
<br />
“Sister!” <br />
<br />
She starts waving her right arm. <br />
<br />
“Sister! Sister!” <br />
<br />
The woman doesn’t look over. I don’t think she can hear -- the windows are up and she probably has the radio on and surely the air conditioner. The light turns green, and off she goes, along with all the other cars and trucks. <br />
<br />
“Did you know her?” I ask. <br />
<br />
“No,” she says. “She’s black is what it is. I’m just tryin’ to get me a ride.” <br />
<br />
While I am still turning that one over in my mind, she tells me she hasn’t had a car in 14 years. She hasn’t had a job in 17 years. She took a leave of absence from her job here in Albuquerque to go to Chicago. She said they told her they’d keep her job for her until she got back. But they didn’t. <br />
<br />
“Time was, people looked out for one another, took care of one another.” <br />
<br />
I ask her who she worked for. She names a local family business I not only remember but had regularly patronized many years ago. I describe the owner to her. <br />
<br />
“Yes, sir,” she says. “That was my father.” <br />
<br />
I am genuinely surprised and I tell her so. She quickly explains this wasn’t her father’s doing. When he died, the kids took over the business. Everything changed, she said. It was her siblings who told her she didn’t have a job anymore. <br />
<br />
“Time was, you put family ahead of money.” <br />
<br />
She said they ended up falling out with one other, all over money, and that’s why the business floundered. <br />
<br />
I tell her I’ve seen another place outside the state with the same name, in the same business, and now long abandoned. “Yes, sir,” she says, and she tells me the state and the town. That is when I think she might really be who she says she is. <br />
<br />
She continues that the out-of-town place was her aunt and uncle’s business, and that part of why they closed down was because of how the family was managing the business here. <br />
<br />
I’m so absorbed by the story I don’t see my bus until it pulls past me toward the intersection. <br />
<br />
I jump up, and watch it stop for a red light. <br />
<br />
“That’s my bus,” I explain to the woman, then walk quickly to the corner. I stand right by the front door and hold up my bus pass. I know the driver can rightfully decline to let me on since I’m not at the stop. He looks over, opens the door. <br />
<br />
I thank him and explain I was deep in a conversation and didn’t realize he’d pulled up at the stop. He laughs and tells me he could see that. <br />
<br />
I take a seat, but the wonder of what I’ve just heard is mixed with regret at such an abrupt leave-taking. And sadness, too, for all that I’ve heard, and for her. <br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
The photo at the top of this story is titled “The simple joys of life can be done alone” and is posted with the permission of Steve Baker. You can see all Steve Baker’s photos on Flickr <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/littlebiglens/">here</a>.<br />
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<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-57218762581665723582016-04-03T05:00:00.000-06:002016-04-03T05:00:04.027-06:00BUS STORY # 491 (Language Lesson)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3Z2NJn2xquitYnALNqD1qK-tFGoaGKXWhfdnHch7RczinZWG4_-TNeRqCHoePvYiinHJ13NT9NBxa4iyMwJ4ahUFY9d6nxqVCyDS3LD1tpbgXc2Se61GCAZPzjsXxkwu3u0z0A/s1600/100_3393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3Z2NJn2xquitYnALNqD1qK-tFGoaGKXWhfdnHch7RczinZWG4_-TNeRqCHoePvYiinHJ13NT9NBxa4iyMwJ4ahUFY9d6nxqVCyDS3LD1tpbgXc2Se61GCAZPzjsXxkwu3u0z0A/s1600/100_3393.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
There’s a guy at the other end of the bench where I sit down to wait for the 5. I open my book and start looking for where I left off when I hear him say something I don’t understand.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry?”<br />
<br />
“Good afternoon.” This is said so deliberately that I understand immediately English is not his native tongue.<br />
<br />
He’s short, compact. Dark face, straight black hair, neatly cut. Button-down plaid shirt, jeans, heavy black shoes in good shape. Mid-40s.<br />
<br />
“Good afternoon,” I reply.<br />
<br />
“I speak Spanish,” he says, again in carefully articulated English. “Do you speak Spanish?”<br />
<br />
“<i>Poco</i>,” I answer, laughing, then add the Anglo invention, “<i>Nada mucho</i>” -- “nothing much” in literal English. He processes this quickly, laughs, and then amends my response to “<i>no mucho</i>.”<br />
<br />
He asks if he can practice his English with me.<br />
<br />
“<i>Claro que si</i>,” I reply. Of course.<br />
<br />
He then explains he has been studying English at CNM for five months. His enunciates carefully, and his accent does not obscure his pronunciation. His command of grammar is remarkably good.<br />
<br />
I tell him in Spanish his English is better than my Spanish. That about brings me to the limits of my Spanish. He looks pleased by my comment.<br />
<br />
I ask him where he’s from.<br />
<br />
Peru. He arrived here -- he gives me the exact date while counting off the months on his fingers -- eight months ago.<br />
<br />
I ask him why he came to America. He answers he has a son training to be an electrician with Job Corps -- he pronounces the “ps” ending of the word.<br />
<br />
He goes on to tell me he has a sister here who’s been an American citizen for forty years. He stayed with her for three months and then, “I go independent.” He’s got an apartment. He also has a wife and daughter back in Peru.<br />
<br />
I ask what his wife does. She’s a secretary.<br />
<br />
And what does he do?<br />
<br />
He was a lawyer back in Peru, but that degree is worthless here. He wants to get into law here, but he knows it will take time and schooling, and right now, he needs to work. He reaches into a bag and pulls out a manilla folder. Inside is a resume listing work he has already done since arriving here in the States: cleared brush; dug trenches; trimmed trees. He explains someone at Goodwill helped him with the resume. The page is crisp and clean.<br />
<br />
He has applied for several jobs, filled out the forms, but no one calls him back. His latest application was yesterday, at a car wash. He shows me the form. I look at the form, but I’m thinking I don’t really understand why he came to the States, and that is the real story here. What I do know is he’s truly starting from scratch.<br />
<br />
I tell him it must be hard being so far from his wife and daughter. It takes me two more attempts to get that across. He smiles and says, “Sometimes not so much.” He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press. I figure that might be a big part of the real story. <br />
<br />
The bus comes and we sit together on the back bench seats. He asks me if I went to college. Yes. Do I have a degree? Yes. A doctorate? No, a bachelor’s. He pauses, then asks me why, if I have a bachelor’s degree, am I riding the bus instead of driving a car. “You are rich enough, yes?”<br />
<br />
I laugh. There is no way to explain here; my Spanish is utterly inadequate, and his English comprehension is not nearly as well developed as his speaking abilities. So I say simply, “S<i>oy rico porque no tengo un automobile!</i>” -- I’m rich because I <i>don’t</i> have a car.<br />
<br />
Which is not true. What is true is that I would be <i>mas rico</i> -- have a lot more disposable income than I do now -- if I didn’t have my car. But I think he understands my point. I’m just not sure he believes it.<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-38043130885105936152016-03-27T05:00:00.000-06:002016-03-27T05:00:00.163-06:00BUS STORY # 490 (Shorts 45)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-mMNoFpnweJG6oG_cUeK7vTyUVX-nlaIqkPUKnyXXfnSjakfjqu9h_OgwjZV1sYRNBEupjRLo8sDTecFddLzQjI2yEUlQ63XZlXN0TsgpyX-Ma_a1e_ni7Z-qJzyG-gVpoNM7Q/s1600/Happy+Holidays+Speak+Up+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-mMNoFpnweJG6oG_cUeK7vTyUVX-nlaIqkPUKnyXXfnSjakfjqu9h_OgwjZV1sYRNBEupjRLo8sDTecFddLzQjI2yEUlQ63XZlXN0TsgpyX-Ma_a1e_ni7Z-qJzyG-gVpoNM7Q/s400/Happy+Holidays+Speak+Up+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Very tall, very thin, older black man gets on the bus and takes the bench seat behind the driver. Jeans, black UNM sweatshirt, Dallas Cowboys cap. The Latino guy in the first row seat leans forward. Brown knit cap, gray Nike jacket with a stained hoodie, faded jeans. The black guy suddenly recognizes him and laughs. They bump. They ask each other how they’re doing, then launch into their latest experiences with their street mission work with the homeless and newly-released prisoners. Their joyful enthusiasm is palpable. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Skinny white guy, gray beard, dressed all in black, on a cell phone when I take a seat on the bus stop bench. When he finishes, he walks over and asks me if I’ve ever had one of those days where nothing goes right. I tell him I have. Then he tells me it took him 55 years to figure out that the day after is always a great day. Every time. Without fail. So he’s just gonna gut out the rest of this day because there’s no telling what’s gonna happen good for him tomorrow. He may go out to the casino, win two hundred thousand dollars. Maybe meet a lady. He’s ready for whatever else is gonna fall on him the rest of the day because tomorrow’s gonna be great!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
The woman with the big dark sunglasses is explaining she’s just had cataract surgery. She says they’ve put a lens in which lets her see far. Next month, they’re doing the other eye and putting in a lens which lets her see near. Then she won’t ever need glasses again. She doesn’t know why they don’t perform this surgery on children. They’d never need glasses. What about vision changes, I ask. She says they can adjust the lenses with computers. “They can adjust the heart with computers, right? Why not eyes?” She wonders if the eyeglass industry is blocking this progress. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
We’re between bus stops on Juan Tabo when we pass a girl running in the same direction. She’s has a ponytail and is wearing a day-glow green backpack. The driver slows the bus, pulls over, and stops. When the girl passes by the front door, she slows. The driver calls out, “Are you running for the bus?” No, she’s just running. “Oh. OK.” We all continue on. A rider in the front tells the driver, “I thought she was trying to catch the bus, too.” So did I. I was going to thank the driver for stopping, but a ton of people were getting on at my stop, so I just waved and exited the back door. Thank you, driver.<br />
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<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-54326642751265229372016-03-20T05:00:00.000-06:002016-03-20T05:04:42.642-06:00BUS STORY # 489 (She Lives In A World Of Her Own)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMwsBESyerrXvjvwY24lrdmp5E6hSNkNEZ1934RFZIsDWmlXjUoHPCC-6sl8F2niVPiWWDHxhifRRCSl0f9YwElZwIL_nD0cetKhoj2LVpSIoqoOuuQ6Lwn0YC-fOHhTrRFwSng/s1600/Bus+Story+%2523+489+%2528She+Lives+In+A+World+Of+Her+Own%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMwsBESyerrXvjvwY24lrdmp5E6hSNkNEZ1934RFZIsDWmlXjUoHPCC-6sl8F2niVPiWWDHxhifRRCSl0f9YwElZwIL_nD0cetKhoj2LVpSIoqoOuuQ6Lwn0YC-fOHhTrRFwSng/s400/Bus+Story+%2523+489+%2528She+Lives+In+A+World+Of+Her+Own%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <i><a href="http://www.timesunion.com/entertainment/article/ASO-returns-to-Carnegie-Hall-4497190.php">timesunion</a></i>.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
The big bright blue hard plastic case is impossible to miss. It’s being embraced by a young woman sitting on the aisle-facing bench seat behind the driver. I’m sitting across the aisle and two seats over from her.<br />
<br />
It has to be a cello. She straddles the case and has her hands wrapped around the neck, just before it swells into the body of the case. <br />
<br />
She’s not a pretty girl. Still, there is something about her, something quietly different, something self-contained, that compels me to keep looking. Perhaps I’m seeing a very young woman (I note the spray of acne across her right cheek) who already knows she was born to play the cello. <br />
<br />
There is something of the geek about her. Her hair, for example, is neat and clean, but style-less. Black hair with curls that are not the homogenous creation of the beauty shop or rollers and a hair dryer. Hair that defines gender then gets out of the way. <br />
<br />
She’s wearing a blue tunic with a kind of Greek embroidery pattern in white print. Over that is a tan and white striped sweater. Black pants. Sandals whose soles can’t be seen, with blue and green strings for straps. They look either homemade or jerry-rigged.<br />
<br />
She sometimes smiles to herself. I can’t help wishing I knew what she was seeing that makes her smile so.<br />
<br />
Sometimes she just closes her eyes. Once, I see her moving her lips. I think she might be praying. I see her head bowed slightly, her hands clasped around the cello case, and I wonder if she’s praying to God or the cello.<br />
<br />
We pull up to a stop where a mom with a stroller and a small child are waiting. I get up and move back a couple of rows. Mom takes my seat across from the cellist. The kid looks four or five, and he’s got a new, brightly colored plastic toy. The cellist leans forward and asks him about his toy. He’s excited to tell her all about it. They talk, and she smiles with genuine pleasure. She is at home in this child’s world.<br />
<br />
We get off at the same stop. She exits the front, I the back. I look back once and watch her move up the sidewalk with her big blue cello case. She moves like someone who knows who she is, and what she’s about. Like someone who knows she can make that cello sound the music of the spheres. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-57896554509272441202016-03-13T05:00:00.000-06:002016-03-13T05:00:04.281-06:00BUS STORY # 488 (Manners: The Good, The Bad, And the Ugly)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7AfWJLnGOQ8MNGLtNlkEycXH93NmeEkxpXHtcXwwzTLA_4QK0p1vk7zuKd3z9bdCgMLnXQ3SfRj-d9B3J5AifynAus5vbREcVachqtD6GyZQvcXTy7Nu18UNRn0DtcGhrMRD-A/s1600/100_3574_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7AfWJLnGOQ8MNGLtNlkEycXH93NmeEkxpXHtcXwwzTLA_4QK0p1vk7zuKd3z9bdCgMLnXQ3SfRj-d9B3J5AifynAus5vbREcVachqtD6GyZQvcXTy7Nu18UNRn0DtcGhrMRD-A/s400/100_3574_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
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<br />
We’ve pulled up to a stop and I can see from my window seat there are four people waiting to board. Two of them are an elderly couple, one with a walker, and I can see the other two boarders make way for them.<br />
<br />
The driver sees them, too, and he kneels the bus. That causes the couple sitting on the two-seat passenger side bench reserved for the elderly and handicapped to turn and look at the boarders. <br />
<br />
They are a young couple. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, close-cropped hair, black earrings. She looks like she could be in grade school, but everything else about her says she’s either late teens or 20s. <br />
<br />
They look over the boarders, taking them all in, then turn back and stay seated. There is absolutely no sign that the possibility has even registered that they might vacate these seats for the elderly couple and move further back in the largely empty bus. <br />
<br />
Across from them, sitting on the bench seats behind the driver, is a big guy in a bright blue sweatshirt that has “Jesus” printed in large white letters across the front and down both sleeves. He’s sitting in the middle of the three-seat bench, flanked on either side by a back pack and a duffel bag. He can see the boarders, too, and he doesn’t give any indication of moving, either. <br />
<br />
This sign is posted at the end of both bench seats:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHPZwfAOUs0fmG8oD234tJs2ZRmBD6VuQSDR3nQP3n0q0-2j2mDrlayUi1DY-Qv7r1pKhndvyh7b4gG_qWwDAg1WtRJz8Qx3YFZmAH5ugQdoH60URc9CHUQjDyEecslIMIMTQBA/s1600/100_3574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHPZwfAOUs0fmG8oD234tJs2ZRmBD6VuQSDR3nQP3n0q0-2j2mDrlayUi1DY-Qv7r1pKhndvyh7b4gG_qWwDAg1WtRJz8Qx3YFZmAH5ugQdoH60URc9CHUQjDyEecslIMIMTQBA/s400/100_3574.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
There is no indication either the couple or the man in blue has seen the sign. Or perhaps both have seen the sign next to the seats across the aisle and are thinking it applies to the other side, not theirs. Or both have read the sign but believe the other should be the one to move -- the man because there’s only one of him; the couple because the man has two bags. <br />
<br />
I don’t believe their inaction has anything to do with the sign. I believe they are oblivious of the sign. Because they are not oblivious of the old couple, I believe they are stunningly thoughtless -- literally, without thought. <br />
<br />
They remain thoughtless while the old man shuffles behind his walker, tentatively negotiating passage between the couple on his left and the big blue-shirted guy on his right. <br />
<br />
He’s gotta be in his late 70s, or maybe even his 80s. It’s warm out, but he’s wearing off-white trousers, a tan sports jacket, and a canvas hat that resembles a pith helmet. <br />
<br />
He pushes the walker against the first forward-facing row, and very slowly tries to turn to position himself so he can sit down.
The couple watches all this impassively, as does the man across from them. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the old woman is still at the till. The driver motions for the remaining two riders to come aboard. They show him their IDs, but they can’t get past the old man and his walker. <br />
<br />
The old man finally gets turned around, and the two younger riders squeeze on by. But once they’ve passed, he doesn’t sit. <br />
<br />
I see the old woman finish at the till and move toward the old man. She’s surely in her late 70s, dressed up in a long skirt and a purple jacket. She’s wearing a purple hat that not even Google will be able to find later, but that looks like it might be right at home on the set of some PBS British period-piece. The effect is as if a broad brim had been pulled severely down on both sides of her head, so that her face is framed by an almost heart-shaped purple flower. <br />
<br />
She stands in front of the old man, and does not see a seat. <br />
<br />
It is at this point the man in the Jesus shirt suddenly snaps to what is happening. He hurriedly grabs both his bags, moves them to the empty first forward-facing row to his left, then vacates the bench. <br />
<br />
The driver starts to pull out, then realizes the old man is still standing in the aisle with his walker. He brakes and waits. That’s when it hits me: the old man is waiting until his wife is seated. Of course! That’s the way it was done back in the day. <br />
<br />
The woman takes a seat. The old man could maneuver the walker once again so he can sit beside her, and I think he considers it. But he’s already in a position to sit, and I’m sure he knows how slow he is. And so he sits down, slowly, where he is -- another kind of consideration for others from back in the day when consideration for others played a greater role in people’s consciousness. <br />
<br />
The driver pulls out. Now that the show is over, the young couple turns toward the windshield for something else to entertain them. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-67829076947700465762016-03-06T05:00:00.000-07:002016-03-06T05:00:00.975-07:00BUS STORY # 487 (“Demons Don’t Fight Demons”)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Thp3lISc8bXKNq455aKgBvVFi6i_VYw0gjiB9vFJBQtG2W5ySoX1gnx-3ggh-cYymJBrcX7Sg0tqh-Pebj-2YxD_WqPw0qv2wo3UVps3U3NYSb8zkX5-z2Bcqz0BZQQtwg3NQw/s1600/Screen+shot+2016-01-03+at+7.18.56+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Thp3lISc8bXKNq455aKgBvVFi6i_VYw0gjiB9vFJBQtG2W5ySoX1gnx-3ggh-cYymJBrcX7Sg0tqh-Pebj-2YxD_WqPw0qv2wo3UVps3U3NYSb8zkX5-z2Bcqz0BZQQtwg3NQw/s400/Screen+shot+2016-01-03+at+7.18.56+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from </span><a href="http://www.cosasonline.com/artists/tomasa-gonzalez-sanchez" style="font-size: x-small;">Cosas</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Both of us get off the Red Line and head around the corner to the bench to wait for the eastbound 11. My co-rider points to the westbound coming towards us and says that means we have ten minutes before our bus comes.<br />
<br />
I sit. He stands. He regards the Burger King sign across the street and tells me how Burger King will give him his ribs “FOB” which they won’t do at McDonald’s. <br />
<br />
I look puzzled. <br />
<br />
Fresh off the broiler, he explains. <br />
<br />
He tells me how his family is in the restaurant business. <br />
<br />
And the car business. <br />
<br />
And the detailing business. <br />
<br />
That last is where he’s coming from now. <br />
<br />
“Where Microsoft started,” he says. Then, “one-oh-nine California.” <br />
<br />
I have no idea if any of what he’s telling me is true. I know Bill Gates and Paul Allen started Microsoft somewhere here in the city, but I have no idea where. Maybe he’s making all this up, but maybe he’s not. You really never know. <br />
<br />
Three other people join us from the northbound 157. <br />
<br />
He’s talking about Chinese food, how it’s good whether it’s hot or cold. Then he talks about the “smoked chicken” you can get at Golden Pride. <br />
<br />
The bus comes, sure enough, right on that ten minutes. <br />
<br />
We all head for the door. It’s one of the 300s, and when the doors open, a kid from the 157 heads for the stairs. Next thing, we hear the driver shouting, “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you hear?” <br />
<br />
The kid says, “No, ma’am, I didn’t hear anything.” <br />
<br />
“I guess not,” she fires back. <br />
<br />
By now, we can see the wheelchair lift ascending from below, and so we all know there’s a rider in a chair getting ready to get off. But I didn’t hear the usual beep beep beep either. <br />
<br />
He tells the driver she doesn’t have to be so rude about it. <br />
<br />
She tells him she can refuse to let him board for giving her lip. <br />
<br />
My co-rider moves quickly over to the kid. <br />
<br />
“Let it ride. Let it ride. It ain’t worth it.” <br />
<br />
The kid looks like he doesn’t really want to let it ride, but just for an instant. My co-rider is an older black guy and I think the kid, who’s white, gets that this guy may have more street smarts than he does. Good for him. <br />
<br />
I tell the kid I didn’t hear the signal, either. <br />
<br />
Then my co-rider tells him this is a sign he’s in God’s favor. Those are the folks the Demon goes after. “Demons don’t fight demons,” he explains. <br />
<br />
The kid has no idea what to make of this last, but he is clearly distracted from what happened with the driver. <br />
<br />
After the lift is back in place, my co-rider goes in front of the kid, telling him he’ll run interference for him, everything is gonna be fine. <br />
<br />
I follow him, prepared to intervene if she gives the kid any more trouble. She doesn’t, and we all ride home in peace. <br />
<br />
That night, I google detailing shops in Albuquerque. Not a one comes up on California. I google “Microsoft in Albuquerque.” I come up with 199 California St, NE. <br />
<br />
Maybe I misheard. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
A few weeks later, I hop the westbound 66 to California. Here’s what I find at the end of the 100 block:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStN1LPWjtN-itJ2mcesD3Ui8vN1dbLCMIyx-7qRH4vTj7ivcOgPZ9MhIJMGbVHIAGNKDtJZbg5L6H3LgUD0cO8ERU6TRJePkSC-XhZHzP656GMnc7l6feXTuU3pGAzMYi_iRHDA/s1600/100_1904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStN1LPWjtN-itJ2mcesD3Ui8vN1dbLCMIyx-7qRH4vTj7ivcOgPZ9MhIJMGbVHIAGNKDtJZbg5L6H3LgUD0cO8ERU6TRJePkSC-XhZHzP656GMnc7l6feXTuU3pGAzMYi_iRHDA/s1600/100_1904.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPOVHd8lsjU2ytMiDEq9mfsbUkor0RbibNcZXXbVNXiLx8MNaP4oSQcLc6OPWAElNUE693U9kIjw8X0hkbfmzhyjkNSWZ0HAnDPctumeQPQil1UcDoYAV2uGTS6jrhVMrkYCkKQ/s1600/100_1903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPOVHd8lsjU2ytMiDEq9mfsbUkor0RbibNcZXXbVNXiLx8MNaP4oSQcLc6OPWAElNUE693U9kIjw8X0hkbfmzhyjkNSWZ0HAnDPctumeQPQil1UcDoYAV2uGTS6jrhVMrkYCkKQ/s1600/100_1903.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-19851708169042305562016-02-28T05:00:00.000-07:002016-02-28T05:21:30.806-07:00BUS STORY # 486 (Sounds Like)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmSud6X6iLGl1WVxLVGwNj6uj9yln6jxultkm9rR-olOf0emgwywUgfagTHVM3ZAbFyiL31tB4hT4pnh5kxgSh2dw9kXDEsiTgNGsaSAbyn7BhDz96Cb5x3-0b1grilvgor55Hg/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-05-07+at+8.17.47+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmSud6X6iLGl1WVxLVGwNj6uj9yln6jxultkm9rR-olOf0emgwywUgfagTHVM3ZAbFyiL31tB4hT4pnh5kxgSh2dw9kXDEsiTgNGsaSAbyn7BhDz96Cb5x3-0b1grilvgor55Hg/s400/Screen+shot+2015-05-07+at+8.17.47+PM.png" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://www.theblaze.com/stories/2012/08/14/muslim-woman-sues-disney-for-not-allowing-her-to-wear-her-hijab-to-work/">The Blaze</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It’s mid-afternoon on an almost-full Rapid. I’m lost in my own thoughts and feeling a little like nodding off when I hear a woman say something from the back of the bus that jolts me awake.<br />
<br />
I’m not the only one. I’m sitting in one of the aisle-facing bench seats just in front of the pleats, and everyone on my side and the opposite side has reacted as well, all of us turning back to where we heard what we thought we heard:<br />
<br />
“He saw me naked, eh?”<br />
<br />
I spot a small woman sitting in an aisle seat near the back doors. I know it’s her when I hear her laugh. She’s laughing as if whoever it was that saw her naked is the funniest thing.<br />
<br />
She’s round and short, with orange pants, a dark gray-light gray striped shirt, and an orange hijab! Big sunglasses. She’s smiling and talking and I quickly realize two things: she’s talking into a cell phone mike on the wires which run up under her scarf; she’s speaking something other than English. <br />
<br />
Something doesn't fit here, but that’s definitely the voice. <br />
<br />
She continues chatting away, pausing to listen, laughing, chatting away. She’s oblivious to all the attention her co-riders in front are giving her. <br />
<br />
I look her over once more, and I am convinced what we heard was a foreign phrase that came out sounding like “he saw me naked, eh” in English. I can see the others drawing the same conclusion now. You might say we very clearly misheard. <br />
<br />
Too bad, because that laugh of hers afterward was wonderful. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-46744243953062269722016-02-21T05:00:00.000-07:002016-02-21T05:00:00.762-07:00BUS STORY # 485 (Portrait # 32: A Man You Don’t Meet Every Day)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDZAIkkvW-26pobqvAUk2JE2UUMxbxFtDzqMaK6xAxGHWJFc-maotpV8f2M7UN0reDTjxc6siWzZs4mt4IGc7cHfPe7MJ0VGTrJOZ55J0Ify10SnBtFR8CsybIIkN75_pMiWpVw/s1600/pope-on-septa-bus-1000x563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDZAIkkvW-26pobqvAUk2JE2UUMxbxFtDzqMaK6xAxGHWJFc-maotpV8f2M7UN0reDTjxc6siWzZs4mt4IGc7cHfPe7MJ0VGTrJOZ55J0Ify10SnBtFR8CsybIIkN75_pMiWpVw/s400/pope-on-septa-bus-1000x563.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://0.0.0.15/09/18/10-days-of-pope-francis-the-towing-traffic-and-events-schedule-for-the-philly-papal-visit/">BillyPenn</a>.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We’re waiting at the Uptown Transit Center. The Rapid is sitting in the station, but the driver is on break and waiting for the scheduled time of departure. <br />
<br />
Standing by the front door is a tall man who commands attention. Shiny black leather porkpie hat fitted over a black do-rag that drops down the back of his neck. A square, jeweled earring on the right ear, and for what all the world appears to be a pinch of kleenex or toilet paper parked on a shaving nick just past the right corner of his mouth. It takes me a while to rule out some kind of piercing hardware. <br />
<br />
He’s wearing a suit. Unusual enough, but this suit is one of a kind. It’s brown, with the look of linen. The fabric is shot through with darker brown threads. <br />
<br />
The suit coat is unique. The collar is more jacket than suit, and even though there are no lapels to speak of, large black buttons run down the front double-breasted style. French cuffs with brass buttons for cufflinks. <br />
<br />
Gray open-collar shirt with a heavy silver chain link necklace. Black dress shoes, plain-toed and well polished, A handsome and substantial walking stick. <br />
<br />
He stands by the front door with the air of someone who’s not used to having to wait. <br />
<br />
When we eventually board, he sits in the bench seat behind the driver, pulls a pair of sun glasses from an inside pocket, pulls a dark blue handkerchief from another inside pocket, and begins mouth-steaming and wiping the lenses. When he’s done, he puts the sun glasses on. Then he adjusts his do-rag in the front, and readjusts his hat. <br />
<br />
Sitting across from him is a red-headed, red-mustached guy in a straw cowboy hat and a colorfully striped cowboy shirt. The cowboy says something about yesterday’s rain. The suit guy leans forward and weighs in on that rain. They talk about the weather a little more before moving into a substantial discussion about God and mankind’s relationship with God. <br />
<br />
At first, the conversation is evenly divided, but gradually, the suit takes over more and more of the speaking time. His gestures become bolder, and I watch the cowboy shrug once or twice, then fan his hands, palm down, as if to say no argument here, brother. <br />
<br />
But I can tell the cowboy is ready for his stop. That comes at San Mateo. He pulls the cord and stands up. The suit tells him how much he enjoyed talking with him, The cowboy extends his hand, and they shake vigorously, Then the cowboy goes to stand by the first exit door. <br />
<br />
I get off at the next stop. I watch him as he sits silently, resting his hands on top of the walking stick. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-60388721022844504902016-02-14T05:00:00.000-07:002016-02-14T05:00:18.122-07:00BUS STORY # 484 (Cute Meet)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fW2O2-T1QyDY7li2NJlAsLfAbXuym5RmOur90uJNsTpPB-IVRqfV3E8Xdmyio2bEOEActYPdNvy_Bg09cEa3Sq7Q-xgsKg5amjucbDe1ysJ5uwHey8Xrhsip_SO1zz06FT9ngg/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-02-21+at+11.35.00+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fW2O2-T1QyDY7li2NJlAsLfAbXuym5RmOur90uJNsTpPB-IVRqfV3E8Xdmyio2bEOEActYPdNvy_Bg09cEa3Sq7Q-xgsKg5amjucbDe1ysJ5uwHey8Xrhsip_SO1zz06FT9ngg/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-02-21+at+11.35.00+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Still from "Bittoo trying to flirt Shruti"; downloaded from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_CvxgDfvIY">YouTube</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I watch the guy sitting on the aisle-facing bench seats of the Rapid watch the young woman walk past him, on back to the row of seats across the aisle from mine. She slips in, pulls out a note pad and a smart phone, and plugs in an ear piece.<br />
<br />
I’ll learn shortly she’s 18 (or says she is). Black, off-one-shoulder blouse, blue jeans, little black boots. He’s 27 (or will shortly say he is), in a black and gray and white striped sweater and gray pants. <br />
<br />
He’s still watching her. <br />
<br />
Pretty soon, he gets up and walks to the bench seats in front of the accordion pleats of the flex part of the bus, just in front of her seat. She is still looking down at her phone, but when he starts moving toward her, she smiles at the phone, a quick, little smile that says “Uh-huh.” Cracks me up. <br />
<br />
He starts off with small talk, which consists of one question after another. You goin’ to school? Where? <br />
<br />
She answers -- yes, CNM -- but doesn’t ask any questions back. <br />
<br />
He goes to CNM, too. On the west side. How about her? <br />
<br />
She’s on the main campus. <br />
<br />
He tells her he really doesn’t spend much time there. He takes all his classes on line. He hates going to class. <br />
<br />
And so it goes. He asks, she answers, he elaborates, then asks something new. <br />
<br />
They bingo when they find out both their moms work at Pres. No way! <br />
<br />
He asks how old she is. She hedges, doesn’t seem to want to answer. He tells her he’s 27. But he knows he looks younger. Then he presses her once again to tell him how old she is. 18. She says this in a little voice. He laughs. She laughs. <br />
<br />
He tells her he was in the army for eight years, and now he’s going to school. His parents more or less kicked him out of the house when he was 17, although he explains they helped him get an apartment. He had his car and two bicycles stolen between then and going into the army. <br />
<br />
He asks her where she’s getting off. Downtown. Hey, he is, too. Same place. That’s cool, huh? Cracks me up. <br />
<br />
I can hear most of the conversation, but I’m sitting too close to watch either of their faces without being obvious. That’s a bummer. I can imagine his -- the persistent, optimistic earnestness is in his voice. I’d love to see hers, though, because I can’t tell exactly where she is on this. Certainly not putting him off. <br />
<br />
I get off way before they do, but I feel buoyed up as well as amused by the old ceremony. I just might have been in on the start of something big. <br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-72410075104710344762016-02-07T05:00:00.003-07:002016-02-07T05:00:03.304-07:00BUS STORY # 483 (Moving On) <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ho5pyRyKQQgsT2Gso0_V3bAr_dFMqk5ZcJbUYC7ogwTasktzhV7qQLkGfVfXe2Vnm5xaJgI0CLyxmfAjUr6i99RNjfG65uUCYhKcKDIR7qvUk5dvLDiqou12ce86tWnLfgVYMQ/s1600/Blue+Salud_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ho5pyRyKQQgsT2Gso0_V3bAr_dFMqk5ZcJbUYC7ogwTasktzhV7qQLkGfVfXe2Vnm5xaJgI0CLyxmfAjUr6i99RNjfG65uUCYhKcKDIR7qvUk5dvLDiqou12ce86tWnLfgVYMQ/s1600/Blue+Salud_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
She’s just wrapping up a phone call when I get to the bus stop bench. I sit down and look south. I know perfectly well the bus isn’t due for another ten minutes, but being preoccupied by something in the opposite direction is my ceremonial gesture of granting the woman some privacy. <br />
<br />
She finishes her call, puts the phone in her purse, then says, “This is a great day. I’m moving into a new apartment, and I’m really excited.” <br />
<br />
I say something supportive, and she tells me how she had to get out of where she’s been living. She’s had spiders and cockroaches, there’ve been break-ins -- not her apartment, but all through the complex. She says she’s breaking her lease, but she doesn’t care, she’s had it. If they take her to court, she has her medical records showing all the spider bite treatments she’s needed since living there. <br />
<br />
I ask her where “there” is. It’s a familiar name, a collection of apartments in the area with signage advertising cheap rents. <br />
<br />
She asks me if I know when the bus is coming. She doesn’t usually ride this route, but she’s going to pick up her keys to her new place this morning. <br />
<br />
I tell her the scheduled arrival time, and she tells me she’s enlisted her son to help her move into the new apartment next weekend. She was hoping for this weekend, but he and his wife had plans. <br />
<br />
We talk about the weather. She says something that makes me think she hasn’t been here all that long. <br />
<br />
In fact, she’s been here forty years. Came out here when she was 10, along with her mom and dad and a bunch of brothers and sisters and a dog and a cat. <br />
<br />
The bus comes, but I find a seat across from her and ask her where she’d come from. <br />
<br />
Long Island. They were on their way to Orange County, California, where her dad’s mother lived. But they ran out of money in Albuquerque. <br />
<br />
Her dad found a job in just three days. Then they found a house, and some furniture, and here she is this morning. <br />
<br />
She says her brothers and sisters have all gone back to visit, but she hasn’t. She doesn’t think she wants to because her family told her the school she went to is all closed up, and all the trees in her neighborhood have been cut down. <br />
<br />
But she does have an old neighborhood friend who moved to upstate New York and who pesters her constantly about coming up to visit. But she just can’t afford a trip like that. <br />
<br />
I ask if her friend would come out here. <br />
<br />
No. She wants her to go up there. <br />
<br />
Her stop comes up and she pulls the cord, wishes me well, and heads out the rear door. I wish her luck. <br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-65743977325220423992016-01-31T05:00:00.000-07:002016-01-31T05:00:13.862-07:00BUS STORY # 482 (Card Not Valid) <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFLFYZADgXPAE8KnkRzLdjq8LGx9Zka7cwb2SIug4srfgjkHhriTqiAY5LEqt6loUc9rA9btxEf748FJQfqL8ZNbTsoY4OLl69gmE-uHDyt4pcHuV88qRscZV7in7iMvaKAWk1w/s1600/DSCN0321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFLFYZADgXPAE8KnkRzLdjq8LGx9Zka7cwb2SIug4srfgjkHhriTqiAY5LEqt6loUc9rA9btxEf748FJQfqL8ZNbTsoY4OLl69gmE-uHDyt4pcHuV88qRscZV7in7iMvaKAWk1w/s1600/DSCN0321.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Busboy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
A woman with a grocery cart boards and runs her pass through the slot. <br />
<br />
“Card not valid,” the machine says. <br />
<br />
She swipes it again. <br />
<br />
“Card not valid.” <br />
<br />
She tells the driver she just bought this card and there must be something wrong with it. <br />
<br />
People are backed up waiting for her and the driver tells her to go ahead and have a seat for now. <br />
<br />
She sits on the bench seat behind the driver, with her cart in front of her. People have to turn sideways to step by. <br />
<br />
When everyone has boarded, she stands back up to return to the till. <br />
<br />
The guy sitting across from her hands her his bus pas. “Here,” he says, “use mine. It works.” <br />
<br />
She takes the card up to the driver and swipes it. <br />
<br />
“Card not valid.” <br />
<br />
She tells the driver the machine is broken because “his card” -- she points to the guy sitting on the bench seat -- doesn’t work, either. <br />
<br />
The driver tells her she can’t use another rider’s bus pass. And besides, the card reader has been working just fine all morning. <br />
<br />
She shows the driver her card and says she just got it. I can see from where I’m sitting it’s one of the monthly senior passes. <br />
<br />
The driver takes her pass and looks at it. Then she puts it into the activation slot. It gets pulled down into the slot, then pushed back up. The driver takes the pass and hands it back to the woman. <br />
<br />
“You have to activate it before you can swipe it,” she explains. <br />
<br />
The rider then starts to swipe the pass. <br />
<br />
The driver tells her she doesn’t have to swipe it when she activates it the first time. <br />
<br />
The woman starts back to her seat, hands the man his card back, and says, “I guess we got that taken care of.” <br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-20092382290838125792016-01-24T05:00:00.004-07:002016-01-24T05:00:03.170-07:00BUS STORY # 481 (New York State Of Mind)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4KoLJcM9JEqorYAWK3MAcXJl3abY8NmVLRDEmo8DHhjVDX6gINq7QWPic-MT8t1842giB20djTWp0H98C4BtvCGN_jDukzfWMzvcnUiB0tBft2fxb7bvm9Wofg5_frz6AkuJjQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-03-30+at+8.57.18+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4KoLJcM9JEqorYAWK3MAcXJl3abY8NmVLRDEmo8DHhjVDX6gINq7QWPic-MT8t1842giB20djTWp0H98C4BtvCGN_jDukzfWMzvcnUiB0tBft2fxb7bvm9Wofg5_frz6AkuJjQ/s400/Screen+shot+2015-03-30+at+8.57.18+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://gastrolust.com/2013/12/writing-on-eating-in-the-city-of-new-orleans/">Gastrolust: Writing on (Eating in) the City of New Orleans</a>.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I’m going back to New York City </i><br />
<i>I do believe I’ve had enough.</i><br />
-- Bob Dylan, from “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues”<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>My daughter told me this story which she heard from a friend in Brooklyn.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Myra* is a born-and-bred New Yorker. The first time she lived outside the city was when she got a job teaching at Tulane, in New Orleans. <br />
<br />
After moving, she had a number of experiences -- getting an apartment, getting her utilities set up, and so forth -- which impressed upon her just how far from New York City New Orleans really is. <br />
<br />
It was so different she had a difficult time thinking of it as part of the United States, and she ended up imagining it was really an island nation off the coast of America. <br />
<br />
Because she’d lived in NYC all her life, she didn’t know how to drive. So when she got to New Orleans, she had to take the bus until she got her license. <br />
<br />
The bus, like everything else in New Orleans, proved to be very different from what she’d known from back east. Her favorite story happened one morning when she was on the bus going to work. The driver pulled over to the side of the street, went into a corner store, re-entered the bus with a paper sack holding what everyone could see was tall boy, popped the top, and resumed driving his route. <br />
<br />
<i>Laissez les bons temps bus rouler! </i><br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
*Real name changed. <br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-22456963634724440522016-01-17T05:00:00.002-07:002016-01-17T05:00:00.146-07:00BUS STORY # 480 (Shorts 43: Overheards)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOs_6jj_JU9r02NN5C5K68LFiojVmO0ZgiDIaFbMmpOFhzhuWncQIBuBW1CvUn8-pxj2ATZ10YZiOORX8BsWRZD6laK8QOTk8AnItHZS3WFE7_VbkpjIbexaqiFP1Es5Cp4INExA/s1600/100_3478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOs_6jj_JU9r02NN5C5K68LFiojVmO0ZgiDIaFbMmpOFhzhuWncQIBuBW1CvUn8-pxj2ATZ10YZiOORX8BsWRZD6laK8QOTk8AnItHZS3WFE7_VbkpjIbexaqiFP1Es5Cp4INExA/s400/100_3478.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Rapid Ride stop on Indian School east of Louisiana</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>I’ve overheard a lot of things on the bus. Some are funny, some are heartwarming, some are poignant, some are sad, and some are downright depressing.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Fragments of a phone conversation on a crowded Red Line one Wednesday evening: “She’s goin’ away for five years...The guys who hired her were the ones who gave the video to the FBI (laughs)...Her roommate’s got a little bit of a conscience, but she’d never rat her out...No, she’s not a lesbian -- I don’t know why her girlfriend never figured that out...Maybe she will be by the time she gets out (laughs).”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
From two high schoolers in a group of four, two boys and two girls, sitting in the back of the bus:<br />
He: “You’re a bitch.”<br />
She: “Don’t use that word.”<br />
He: “Why not? You know you are.”<br />
She: “It’s not nice.”<br />
He: “You’re still a bitch.”<br />
She: “I am not.”<br />
He: “What are you, then?”<br />
She, pausing: “I’m a whore.” <br />
The word “whore” dissolves into a nervous giggle.<br />
It’s been months now, and the exchange still depresses me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
On an only relatively lighter note, here’s another teens-overheard from the F train in NYC from the <a href="http://www.mikedaisey.com/2005/10/blog-post_113060263097932043.sht">Dilettante archives of Mike Daisey</a>:<br />
Tween girl #1: So like apparently my brother is engaged.
<br />
Tween girl #2: Really? Since when?
<br />
Tween girl #1: I dunno, found out at breakfast this morning.<br />
Tween girl #2: Didn't he like just finish high school?
<br />
Tween girl #1: Yeah, but she's like still 17 and she's got a two year old so she's way worse off than him.
<br />
Tween girl #2: Well is it his kid?
<br />
Tween girl #1: Who knows? He's not tellin'.<br />
Tween girl #2: Probably is...what a man-ho slut wedder.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjouqIl0Z0Cz1Kz5Clhv-QUfZTxq8Nj43P-RJCn0cOi9sbwv38vDM5WZehjqLUqO7XthwAMRXmj7J0MoQBOxDwJytsNum92pZ5ZR0deJAVZyUsCjw3gcwYqETfB2WQDo4wbaHTjQ/s1600/100_4647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjouqIl0Z0Cz1Kz5Clhv-QUfZTxq8Nj43P-RJCn0cOi9sbwv38vDM5WZehjqLUqO7XthwAMRXmj7J0MoQBOxDwJytsNum92pZ5ZR0deJAVZyUsCjw3gcwYqETfB2WQDo4wbaHTjQ/s400/100_4647.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bus stop bench at Zuni and Washington</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Overheard at the bus stop at Louisiana and Lomas:<br />
1st rider: “Golden Corral is giving veterans a free meal for Veterans Day. Only they’re doing it on Monday, not the day.”<br />
2nd rider (who is wearing a blue cap with ‘Veteran” on the front and along the bill): “That’s good to know. I think Applebee’s did that last year. Me and my wife went. I had to pay for her, but we got dinner for half price.”<br />
1st rider: “What you need to do is to hit the one at Central for breakfast, then the one on San Mateo for lunch, then the one over on Coors for supper.”<br />
2nd rider: “Yeah. Eat all day for free.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Overheard during a discussion between two riders disagreeing about just how serious the deflation of the game balls by the New England Patriots really was: “Well, I probably see things different because I’m an old guy. I’m 47 and...” No, son, no, you are not an old guy. That’s <i>in</i>flation.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiG-fUETiSDTNILKAW_t1TPnF4lytCixjSZtimTk3Hm8q_356HhaIRmJS6lyLdZsIz9ei17BO9v-lTZLG0ot9T_rNJiMmseUvawKQxhPNRADclrdl49-v3HwObJtl6w68wrL5nw/s1600/100_3520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiG-fUETiSDTNILKAW_t1TPnF4lytCixjSZtimTk3Hm8q_356HhaIRmJS6lyLdZsIz9ei17BO9v-lTZLG0ot9T_rNJiMmseUvawKQxhPNRADclrdl49-v3HwObJtl6w68wrL5nw/s400/100_3520.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bus stop bench at Wyoming and Montgomery</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-67515850321696380042016-01-10T05:00:00.003-07:002016-01-10T05:41:41.307-07:00BUS STORY # 479 (A Tender Mercy)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj791w0A4Qkl9IPi_rg1DhgLJqoZVFeclT8el2fH8xCrKut9_dK-ye_8k8elaaYpQbcv_PRLto-EBWacNZ4M9y3hfir5RifmV9dJIj4-QENfU9B92YgpoC9K-T9n0-LqnDfz0JcZQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-12-01+at+4.54.50+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj791w0A4Qkl9IPi_rg1DhgLJqoZVFeclT8el2fH8xCrKut9_dK-ye_8k8elaaYpQbcv_PRLto-EBWacNZ4M9y3hfir5RifmV9dJIj4-QENfU9B92YgpoC9K-T9n0-LqnDfz0JcZQ/s400/Screen+shot+2015-12-01+at+4.54.50+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://flic.kr/p/pL5SXP">Untitled</a>, © All Rights Reserved, by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashakur/">AShakur</a>.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_1410688259"></span><span id="goog_1410688260"></span><br />
There’s a guy waiting for the bus at the second to the last stop at the end of the route where the driver can take a break if he’s on schedule. <br />
<br />
When the bus pulls up and the door opens, the guy waiting doesn’t board. He’s talking with the driver. <br />
<br />
I can’t hear the conversation. I figure he’s asking something about where the bus goes or how to get from here to somewhere else. <br />
<br />
He points down the sidewalk, then makes an exaggerated “c’mon, c’mon” gesture. Ah, he’s trying to hold the bus for someone who’s running late. <br />
<br />
The driver shakes his head no, and the doors start to close. Then I see him look in the mirror. The doors return to wide open, and he waits. <br />
<br />
And waits. <br />
<br />
Eventually, we see a guy limping up the sidewalk to the front door. Older guy, obviously trying to go as fast as he can. I can see the effort and pain on the side of his face. <br />
<br />
When the old guy boards, I see knee pads worn on the outside of his jeans on both knees. The pads are backwards, the pad behind his knees. The straps are pulled tight above and below the knees. <br />
<br />
He staggers toward the bench seat and falls into me. <br />
<br />
He apologizes profusely, and explains it’s his knees. I can smell alcohol on his breath. <br />
<br />
I tell him it’s OK, and say it looks like he’s got some pretty sore knees. <br />
<br />
He does, he does, but he can’t get them fixed. He went to the VA and they ran some tests and he’s got blood clots in his chest. They can’t fix the knees until the blood clots go away. <br />
<br />
His knees are too sore for him to ride his bike anymore. That’s why he’s gone back to drinking. Because of the pain, you know. <br />
<br />
The driver has driven past the rest stop. There was no one waiting, and there was no time left to take a break. He’ll probably have forgotten all about it by the end of the day. <br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
The photo at the top of this story is <a href="http://flic.kr/p/pL5SXP">untitled</a>, © All Rights Reserved, and is posted with the permission of AShakur. You can see AShakur's photostream on Flickr <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashakur/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-38641943592866333742016-01-03T05:00:00.001-07:002016-01-03T05:00:02.442-07:00BUS STORY # 478 (Dog Is My Co-rider)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbcBL7es-wzwbvAby4-WIoTxUdq2ap0vqPv-cUlTGrCymIeS8kS8WU1IVf4ypCHkFtac2YfmsAZg5utVr-ov-FkuzZfouddOLzZFz0Cud5e4ImnaJSYoJW3sKnR21CcgyWCemVg/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-05-14+at+4.20.48+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbcBL7es-wzwbvAby4-WIoTxUdq2ap0vqPv-cUlTGrCymIeS8kS8WU1IVf4ypCHkFtac2YfmsAZg5utVr-ov-FkuzZfouddOLzZFz0Cud5e4ImnaJSYoJW3sKnR21CcgyWCemVg/s400/Screen+shot+2015-05-14+at+4.20.48+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://geeksjourney.com/yeah-im-still-on-the-dog-thing">A Geek in the Wilderness</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We’re just a few stops out of the turnaround when a woman boards the bus with a dog on a leash. It is not marked as a service dog. Perhaps it is a “support” dog. That would fit with the woman, a thirty-something trim honey blonde wearing a nice T-shirt and nice jeans.<br />
<br />
The dog, a Heinz 57 with Boxer in his ears and German Shepherd in his snout, is clearly a youngster, with all the insatiable curiosity and inability to hold still that comes with that age. <br />
<br />
The driver says something to her, and a brief conversation ensues. I can’t hear any of it, and I’m wondering if the driver is telling her dogs aren’t allowed on the city buses. <br />
<br />
Maybe the conversation has nothing at all to do with dogs. When they have finished talking, the woman starts down the aisle.The dog jumps up on the bench seat to her right. The woman pulls him down off the bench. She pushes him into the space between the bench seat and the first forward-facing row, then takes the window seat. <br />
<br />
She is trying to get the dog to lie down. He lies down, for about five seconds. Then he’s back up and looking at all the unexplored territory behind him. <br />
<br />
Three men board at the next stop. As each passes by, the dog has to be restrained hard to keep him from checking them out. The second man veers away and extends a “down-boy” stiff arm in the dog’s direction. The dog doesn’t even land a sniff. <br />
<br />
The bus was almost empty at the turnaround. But I know it’s going to fill right up as we get closer into town. I’m remembering an <a href="http://bus-stories.blogspot.com/2007/05/bus-story-28-animal-control-i-try.html">earlier dog-on-the-bus story</a> from when I first began riding. It wasn’t a happy story, and I am worried about how this one is going to turn out. <br />
<br />
Another stop, another two riders. The woman has both hands on the dog’s harness. He tries to meet the new riders, but he is now more contained. But in between stops, he’s given a little more latitude, a bit of the aisle. He wants more. <br />
<br />
And then, a few stops later, she and the dog head for the front door. A teenager is boarding, and when he sees the exuberant dog, he backs up against the handrail and pulls his arms up. I can’t tell if he’s alarmed or just having fun. The woman and dog pass by him and out to the sidewalk without incident. <br />
<br />
This is all the adventure I need for this bus trip, thank you.
<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
The photo credit link is worth checking out for the short post that accompanies the photo. The post even refers to “a bus trip to Albuquerque, New Mexico.” Nice post.<br />
<br />
<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-6462794814287888702015-12-27T05:00:00.000-07:002015-12-27T05:00:01.293-07:00BUS STORY # 477 (The Kindness Of Strangers)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KQ2WTCKDuuUvQ4LG33FabEKiTVie4nDyovOF2Yc3m1LelP5X_avE08UjFfTjcvlBb47ybbzj2W6rLh0dmSjIKrhRJ_mLIigSijIgch1h2csWPYdZoLZNcE0bvj61BQaUL_Brjw/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-03-28+at+10.44.01+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KQ2WTCKDuuUvQ4LG33FabEKiTVie4nDyovOF2Yc3m1LelP5X_avE08UjFfTjcvlBb47ybbzj2W6rLh0dmSjIKrhRJ_mLIigSijIgch1h2csWPYdZoLZNcE0bvj61BQaUL_Brjw/s1600/Screen+shot+2015-03-28+at+10.44.01+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://bustedhalo.com/category/why-lent/page/2">Busted Halo</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<i>My daughter lives in Brooklyn. This is the story she told me about a time she took the A train to JFK.</i><br />
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If you’re taking the A train to JFK airport in NYC, you want to take the route to Far Rockaway, not the route to Lefferts Boulevard. Think of it like the San Mateo bus here: if you want to get to all those office complexes south of Balloon Fiesta Park, you take the 140, not the 141. <br />
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My daughter was going to JFK when the A train pulled into her station. It was going the other way, but she was anxious to get going, and she knew she could transfer later at an above-ground station. <br />
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She’d just taken a seat and pulled her suitcase up beside her when a young man approached her asking if she was going to the airport. <br />
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Yes she was. <br />
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Ah, well, he explained, this route didn’t go to the airport, and he told her which station to get off at to get on the correct route. <br />
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She didn’t feel the need to explain herself, and simply thanked him. <br />
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He asked where she was from. <br />
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Well... She told him she was from Brooklyn and laughed a little sheepishly. <br />
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Ah, so she already knew all this. <br />
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Yes she did, but she very much appreciated his thoughtfulness and willingness to help out someone who might well have been lost. <br />
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It can be confusing, he acknowledged, and said he usually offered to help anyone he saw with a suitcase. <br />
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My daughter got off at her station. She was waiting for the train, her suitcase by her side, when she was approached by a teenaged girl who explained to her the next train coming was the train to the airport. She thanked the girl for being so helpful, and felt really good about her fellow New Yorkers. <br />
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<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32249267.post-60448862430183221392015-12-20T05:00:00.000-07:002015-12-20T05:00:03.905-07:00BUS STORY # 476 (A Bus Story For Christmas, 2015)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNALmkPa9DA4b-fiAoAW0CqcUFEeh9ndzwoNuxhVPgWUR44cD_Xx2UnTq9HW_QReHHDizXVacFDeSYXA0o2IoFqqUoi4bfaU6u1_tDUz0fPShpL5ehyuJFukylsbTF4O_f9QH1A/s1600/PA-1246959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNALmkPa9DA4b-fiAoAW0CqcUFEeh9ndzwoNuxhVPgWUR44cD_Xx2UnTq9HW_QReHHDizXVacFDeSYXA0o2IoFqqUoi4bfaU6u1_tDUz0fPShpL5ehyuJFukylsbTF4O_f9QH1A/s400/PA-1246959.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Downloaded from <a href="http://globalcool.org/lifestyle/stuff/santa-on-public-transport">Global Cool.</a></span></td></tr>
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Nathan Vass is a King County Metro bus driver. He’s also a blogger, and his posts are mostly about his experiences while driving a bus in Seattle.<br />
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At the end of last year, he shared a bus story with a storytelling group in Seattle. The story was videotaped, and he posted that video on his blog, <a href="http://www.nathanvass.com/the-view-from-nathans-bus">The View from Nathan's Bus</a>. <br />
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It is not a Christmas story in the strict sense of the term, but it is very much a Christmas story in spirit. Also in theme: not unlike a certain man and his pregnant wife, a rider shows up in a strange city with no place to stay. <br />
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Here’s Nathan telling his story: <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aQecGi50WGA" width="480"></iframe><br />
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Thanks, Nathan. And may the spirit of Christmas give all of us more stories like this one.<br />
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<br />Busboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01503202856002470418noreply@blogger.com4