In the Bus Bag
Writing My Wrongs: Life, Death, and Redemption in an American Prison, by Shaka Senghor
Tag Archives: 48
A couple of nice, sunny days, and folks in Seattle start acting a fool:
And I thought it was just 48 riders.
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 …
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 …
And this was just a fraction of them:
Three stops in a row were packed (as they are every weekday at 2:30) with energetic, just-released adolescents. It’s faster to walk those five blocks than it is to wait through all the loading drama and then creep along on a vehicle filled far, far beyond capacity. And forget about getting off.
Did I mention that the 48 passes five high schools (that I know of)?
On our 48 ride home yesterday, a very kind bus driver gave Chicklet a page to color. She (the bus driver) had a whole folder full of these:
And, I assume, she dispensed them to other pint-sized riders throughout the day. Nice touch. Now all they need is Metro-themed crayons.
Another ride (with the same driver), another picture:
This crafty young bus chick was cutting out sign letters (perfectly, despite the bumpy ride) while carrying on an involved conversation with her coworker* about the generosity of said coworker’s boyfriend.
It seems that he (the boyfriend, that is) has recently purchased a gorgeous pair of Coach flats for his lady love.
Stylish and bus friendly? Impressive choice!
*Note that I cannot vouch for the safety of this particular activity and therefore do not recommend it.
I’m at the Renton Transit Center, on the 106, waiting to pull out and head back to Seattle. Which reminds me, I rode a brand, spanking new 101 down here: a new style of seats, a new style of straps, and clea-ean. I took a pretty bad photo of the seats on my way out, which I might post later. I digress.
I’m running out of time to tell you that my beloved (and somewhat beleaguered) laptop just connected to somebody’s unsecured network long enough for me to check my Facebook feed (yes, I have an addiction) and my e-mail. …
A college kid bids his compatriots farewell as he prepares to get off at his stop (somewhere on 15th). One of them calls to him:
“Hey, get some minutes on your phone and holler at me!”
Last Sunday, the bus fam made a rare weekend trip to the Eastside (48+545+221) to attend a birthday party at–ahem!–Chuck E. Cheese. The place didn’t seem to impress Chicklet much, but then again, she’d already taken three exciting rides (with big wheels and spinning seats and ringing bells!) before we even arrived.
Yesterday, Chicklet and I made another trip to the Eastside (27+550)–for our second-ever visit to Babies R Us. The store itself was a bit frightening (Have I mentioned that I don’t care for shopping?), but the excursion was delightful. The entire trip took three hours, which included …
Two young women in their late teens/early twenties are talking relationships in the back of the bus.
YW 1: “He’s always asking for presents. He’s like, ‘Buy me this; buy me that.’ I would have bought him that ugly-a** Star Wars poster, but I didn’t want to have to look at it for the rest of my life.”