The Joys of Public Transport
Every day I take the bus to work. Most days the ride is uneventful. Downtown I step onto the sidewalk, wade through the crowd swarming to board the bus I just vacated, and walk the rest of the way to work.
Today the bus was late. There is another route that comes down a sidestreet next to the stop where I catch my ride. Since our bus was late, my friend and I jogged over and hopped onto the other one. It takes a little longer to get downtown, but better late than never.
The two of us sat down on one side near the front of the bus. We were talking, laughing, just shootin’ the shit. Harmless, really. Minding our own business. There was a woman on the opposite side of the aisle. My glance must have grazed over her once or twice, but she occupied only a distant part of my consciousness as I was thoroughly engaged in conversation with my friend.
I freely admit that I enjoy watching people, and I do my best to suspend judgment. Judging someone based on one look is a terrible injustice. All the same, people are the most interesting thing in the world to me. My mother and my Uncle call it People Watching. Maybe I inherited it from their side of the family. When I am in public, I am always vaguely aware of the people around me, even if my attention is elsewhere. Just in case, you know. Wouldn’t want to miss anything good.
There we sat, chatting away, when my glance wandered back to the woman sitting on the opposite side of the bus, a couple seats closer to the front. She was very thin, her hair was a bit dishevelled, but that is nothing unusual. Stranger characters make their way onto these bus routes. I had hardly given her a second thought, but as my eyes, under dark sunglasses, met hers again, she stuck her tongue out violently and turned away in her seat so that I saw her in profile. Her shoulders were thrown back now, her chin aloft, her jaw was tightly clenched in anger. It took me a second to register that her gesture had been directed at me. The conversation I was having with my friend paused only slightly before I shrugged it off and resumed talking.
The bus pulled up to the next stop, jerking to a halt. A young man got onto the bus. Before he was seated the driver had closed the door and continued on his route. The newcomer slumped into the seat next to the woman’s offended figure. She was suddenly on her feet. “I’m sick of your type!” she screamed at me. I was completely bewildered at this point. My type? What have I done now? I sprinted over the possibilities in my mind. I have unwittingly given offense to people before. Maybe I bumped into her when I got on the bus. Did I give her a dirty look? My hurried inventory came up empty. She had moved to the front of the bus and stood with her back to the rest of the passengers. She clutched her sweater around her thin frame.
“What did I do?” my friend and I inquired curiously, questioning her haughty back. “I’d really like to know what exactly I did to offend you,” I said.
“You know what you did, you narcissistic fool!” she spat her retort at me, then turned her back again. My eyebrows went up. I shook my head, then tried to forget what had happened. I couldn’t shake it. I looked around at the other people on the bus. Some had hands latched over helpless grins. Others gave me sympathetic, conspiratorial smiles. My friend and I looked at each other and chuckled in disbelief. When I tell people I take the bus to work, they always say, “Look out for the crazies!” I used to think, aw, they’re not that bad. They never gave me any trouble. I stand corrected. I told a few people at work about the incident. Everyone loves a good story.
Only just now, as I was going over the incident in my mind, did I realize that the bus driver never missed a beat.