Two early twentysomething women are talking relationships in the seat directly in front of me.
Early twentysomething woman 1: “He even helped me clean up the apartment. Like, I asked him to put the dishes away and give the dog some water, and he did it.”
ETW2: “That’s really cool. John would totally have been watching TV.”
ETW1: “I know. He’s a good guy, from a nice family. They’re atheists, but he’s a really good person.”
There is no better place to hear involved discussions about America’s dominant mode of transportation (other than a NASCAR race or a singles’ bar, that is) than the bus. Bus riders love to talk cars. They talk about car problems: squeaky breaks and worn-out clutches and dragging mufflers; cars previously owned and then lost or sold; cars that will be purchased when there’s enough money; cars that idle next to the bus at lights–especially those that aren’t being properly driven or maintained.
Mostly, though, they talk about cars that are waiting–in parking lots and parents’ garages and mechanics’ shops and impound lots, just until the end of the week, or month, or year–to be driven again. (They would be driven now, except that the paycheck doesn’t come until Friday, or the ex-wife needs it until she starts her vacation, or the license is suspended until January.) These cars have butter seats and whitewall tires, V8 engines and big wheels. They are mint-condition, powder-blue 60-something Impalas (which, by the way, can turn the head of even the most committed bus chick–or at least, this committed bus chick) and black-on-black 500 Benzes. They are Corvettes and Caddies and Beamers and Lincolns.
They are never, ever Toyota Solaras.
Two twentysomething guys are keeping the front section entertained with their end-of-the-workday banter.
Twentysomething guy 1: “Kate Moss rides the bus. Not this bus, but a bus.”
TSG 2: “She still in town?”
TSG 1, patting his chest: “Yeah–right here. I’ve got a teeny, tiny Kate living in my heart.”
Chicklet and I are playing with puzzles in the (air conditioned) library. We start with the farm animals, then move to reptiles and amphibians, letters and numbers, and et cetera.
When we get to the vehicle puzzle, Chicklet picks up the car piece, studies it for a second, and announces, to no one in particular, “A Zipcar!”
Northbound 42/48 stop @ MLK & Alaska, 1:30 PM:
More interesting than the trains, even, was the odd encounter Chicklet and I had on Alaska on our way to the stop. A man rolled down his truck window and hollered:
“Ma’am? Ma’am! I suggest y’all get somewhere. There’s a bear on the loose in Seattle!”
A bus family (mom, dad, preschooler, toddler, and baby) is sitting in the very back, near a group of three teenage girls. After the family gets off, the girls begin to ridicule the children’s clothes, which are, to my eyes at least, perfectly unremarkable.
Girl 1: “I can’t believe they take their kids out looking like that.” [pause] “Then again, they didn’t look too hot themselves.”
Girl 2: “Yeah, it would be all wrong if they looked good and they let their kids go around looking shabby.”
Girl 1: “Yeah, if that was the case, and my kids didn’t have clothes, I would dress hella grimy.”
A high-school age boy and girl, both carrying instruments (and presumably just leaving band/orchestra practice) are passing the time while waiting for the 48. They call a few friends who are also waiting for the 48 several stops north, then spend a few moments discussing whether they missed it or it’s really, really late. This apparently reminds the girl of a recent adventure.
Band Nerd Girl: “Last summer, when I was in Israel …”
Band Nerd Boy: “Dude, are you Jewish?”
BNG: “Yes.” [long pause, long sigh] “But just ’cause I went to Israel doesn’t make me Jewish.”
BNB: “Oh I know. But well, if you went to Israel and you’re still in high school, then that would probably mean … Well I guess maybe not with your parents …”
He continues to flail until the girl interrupts him.
BNG: “As I was saying, last summer, when I was in Israel …”
I could learn a thing or two from this young bus chick.
The conversation recovers, and they return to the safer territory of class work and mutual friends, until the boy becomes too distracted by his impatience for the bus to arrive. A 4 passes. An 8 (which can look promising to the untrained eye) turns right before it reaches us. An empty artic is headed “To Terminal.” Finally, a fourth bus approaches in the distance.
BNB: “This one better be the 48.”
BNG: “If it’s not, what are you going to do?”
Excellent question, my dear. Excellent question.