Community Spirit (Part 1)
With my knees pulled up, I can lean against the window and adjust my iPod where nobody can see it. I'm listening to Lift Yer Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven while I ride the bus home from work. On the window, there's a smear of grease from a previous occupant's hair when they rested their head against the glass. As I look out the window, I notice a building I've never seen before. I'm not certain, but I don't think I've ever been down this street.
That's when the man in the back, who has been talking loudly about his job all ever since we left the Southpark station exclaims, "Hey, what are you doin'? You weren't supposed to turn here!" He confers with somebody, and they agree. "Whatcha doin'? You don't know yer route?" he calls up front.
Apparently the driver doesn't, because he offers a confused glance into the rearview mirror. He starts to slow the bus down, reconsiders, and makes another turn. This elicits another shout from the back. "No, man, you want to take Euclid!"
The driver glances back again. The man in back is wearing chef's pants and a white tee shirt. He just got off work. So did everyone else riding bus. "Take the next left," Chef offers.
The driver doesn't, and Chef exasperates, "Well, you might as well run the 20, now." We pass a bus stop, and sure enough, the only bus that runs on this street is the 20. The driver glances back again. "How many of you are going to the Station," he asks. An old man in a suit and carrying a book bag nods. So does the middle-aged lady with the green floral print dress behind him. I raise my hand. After a moment, so does my co-worker with the big hoop earrings. Then everybody lifts their
skinny fists
and agrees that we're all going to the Uptown Station. The driver nods. "Okay, we're going to take the express route."
And we do. Chef calls out the directions, and with no stops, we make it to the Station in record time. I exit from the front door instead of the side. I'm trying to shove my iPod into my pocket, where it will be hidden, and I turn back to the driver. He's older than my father, with gray, receding hair and wire-frame glasses. He looks relieved to have made it back. I say to him, "Thanks for the quick trip home."