The bus driver is talking relationships with the BDP (apparently, a regular passenger) in the seat nearest to him.
Driver: “You know what they say: If you can’t be with the one you love…”
BDP: “Love the one you’re with.”
Driver: “Yeah. Don’t tell her that, though. She’s the type that will kill the messenger.”
Back when I was a young BCiT, I made my grandma mad by (unintentionally) announcing her age to a full 55. At six, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want people to know how old she was. Even now, I find all the shame and secrecy surrounding the number of years a person has been on the planet to be somewhat difficult to understand.
Folks, I’m no spring chicken. Unlike my father, I can’t claim to predate I-5*, but I am old enough to have a (somewhat fuzzy) memory of the Sonics only national championship. (Sorry, didn’t mean to start down that path again.) I’ve tended to view my advancing age as a good thing, since—for one thing—it’s advancing. (I’ll take being alive plus one over the alternative any day.) It also means I’ve lived enough years to have learned a thing or two—and that I’m inching ever closer to that Metro senior discount. I digress.
Last Friday, on an afternoon 3 ride home from visiting some friends on Queen Anne, little Chicklet passed the time (and entertained her neighbors) by making up a song about us.
The lyrics went something like this: “Mommy’s 38, 38, 38; Mommy’s 38—and Rosa’s 3!”
Eh. Hmmm.
Sorry, Grandma.
***
*I do, however, hope to outlive it.
Your almost-three-year old daughter, while playing with some pig figurines that her grandma gave her, picks up the “mommy” pig and says, “She has to leave; she’s going to a meeting.”
And when you ask her what kind of meeting the mommy pig is going to, she says, “A transit task force.”
You know you’re a bus chick if…
You know you’re a bus chick if… (part II)
Somewhere near Blanchet, two black, high-school age girls board. They use the back door, because it’s closer to them when the bus stops.
The driver immediately starts hollering at them to come to the front and pay. His tone is harsh, definitely out of bounds for the level of infraction. The girls do as he asks but do not comment until they find their seats, at which point they begin whispering to each other in earnest.
At UW Medical Center, a blonde, twentysomething woman boards through the back door, presumably for the same reason as the girls. Again, the driver starts yelling.
“You need to come up here and pay. Do NOT get on at the back!”
The woman looks surprised but shrugs and complies.
One of the high school girls mutters to the other, “At least we know he’s not racist.”
On a Wednesday morning walk to Chicklet’s preschool, she requests to be carried. Per usual, I decline.
“You don’t need to be carried, you’re a…”
Chicklet, who has apparently changed her tune since our recent discussion of the topic, anticipates my response and cuts me off.
“I’m not a bus chick!” hollers my little Link-obsessed darling. “I’m a train chick.”
Here’s hoping.
And for the record, I was going to say, “big girl.”
Older gentleman waiting nearby, after some initial pleasantries: “You in love with somebody?”
Bus Chick: “I’m married.”
Older gent: “That’s not what I asked.”
Touché. And yes.
A young girl (around seven or eight) is sitting near the back with some young adult caregivers (camp counselor types), chatting about her interests, friends, and et cetera.
Adult 1, in (a rather inexplicable) response to the mention of a particular friend: “Are you going to marry Casey C?”
Girl: “No! You’re supposed to marry a boy.”
Hmm. Guess they picked the right route for that conversation.
This exchange was overheard by Randy C., a Seattle native who recently finished college in Arizona and is now back in the 2-0-sickness (and riding Metro) full time. Welcome home, Randy!
Due to the inevitable early month fare-increase drama/confusion, a passenger who is paying for two of his friends to ride finds himself short the amount of cash the driver has quoted him. The passenger then reveals that one of his friends is 17 therefore does not have to pay the $2.25 adult peak fare. The driver’s reply:
“Sugar, I don’t read minds. I drive buses, okay?”
Indeed.
I’ve overheard (and been part of) many fare- (and transfer-) related bus-wide discussions this week, and it’s only Tuesday.
And you?