As I ride the number ## bus (like I am going to tell you what number it is!!) several days a week, I have begun to notice some of my fellow riders. At the front of the bus sits a gentleman with white Avia tennis shoes, baggy-straight-legged-faded-denim dad jeans, and a short sleeve button down shirt. His hair resembles a well-manicured crew cut, except for the five to six inch rat tail in the back. His wife, an average-looking brunette in khaki pants and pastel cable-knit sweater, sits next to him. They sweetly hold hands for the entire ride, every day. I find myself wondering what her thoughts are on the rat tail. Does she like it? Does it feel youthful to her? Does she tolerate it because it’s just one of those things he values and she loves him? Or does she dream each night about tip toeing into the kitchen, into the utility drawer, pulling out anything resembling scissors or a dull knife, and sneaking back into the bedroom to cut it off? She realizes the next day there will be questions, possibly consequences, and she hasn’t perfected her alibi.
Across from this couple sits a professional gentleman. Likely in his late fifties, his salt and pepper hair betraying any remaining youth. His suit distinguishes him; his brown leather shoes and carefully picked out navy blue tie suggest attention to detail and regular trips to the dry cleaners. Each morning, I find him at the front of the bus. A faded brown leather briefcase rests gently in his lap just below a small Moleskin-like notebook. He writes feverishly, head down, paying attention to no one. What captivates him so in that notebook? Is it work notes? His to-do list for the day? Is he journaling? Is he writing a novel? Is he taking notes on the sociological observations he is making about others on the bus?
Behind me sits a young man. He wears baggy sweat pants, tennis shoes, a hoodie, and a flat-billed ball cap. He silences the world with his ear buds. He does not appear gruff, but quiet. As a tattered and well-used backpack sits on the floor between his feet, I notice his fingers tapping against his leg. His head bobs to the beat as he gazes out the window. Something about this college-aged young man tells me he wants people to think he doesn’t need them; that he’ll be just fine without anyone’s help. Yet, his searching eyes defy him and share the deep need he has for relationship, for acceptance. I want to reach out to him and say hello; to find some way to encourage him. But I quickly realize I am not the one he wants approval from. To him, I might as well be BFF’s with his aging mom. To him, I am middle-aged. Instead he’s got one eye on the cute 25 year-old three seats over. She plays with her iPhone for the duration. She doesn’t have time to make any eye contact, she is much too busy texting, tweeting, and Instagramming. What could have been the next great love affair has succumbed to the power of social media, for another day. Maybe tomorrow he’ll talk to her. Maybe tomorrow they’ll become Facebook friends.
The bus comes to a startling stop as we all lean forward, then jerk back. I move one foot to steady myself and attempt to display an ounce of grace. The majority of the bus rises to exit as we settle into the first downtown stop. A line forms in the aisle and the bus empties one by one, as we head to the lives awaiting us. Some give salutations to the driver on their way out, most behave as if they do not see her, their own awkwardness, fear, or oblivion getting in the way of their humanness.
We don’t generally acknowledge our standing appointment to see each other every day. Many spending more time with their fellow commuters than their extended families. But still we’ll do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Oddly it will give us a sense of safety to see each other. We’ll look at each other and feel a level of community without knowing each other’s names, jobs, or passions. And we’ll do it again the day after that.
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