The Wheels on the Bus

I remember riding the city bus with my mom when I was a kid. That’s what we called it, the “city bus.” I’m sure Springfield, Illinois had some sort of mass transit acronym, but if they did I never knew it. The bus mostly took us downtown, into the city, so the name stuck. I don’t think we rode the city bus for any other reason than it was fun; we had a perfectly good car (okay we had a perfectly running car), but my parents have so many funny memories of me as a child on that bus that it must have been partially upon my insisting.

After riding buses and trains as my main mode of transportation for two weeks now, I think back to these memories of the city bus and realize, with a comforting relief, they’re all the same. I think one of the reasons I felt so at ease the first time I stepped on an MBTA bus here was that it smelled the same as the busses from my childhood. I’m not talking about a foul smell, like urine or anything, but bus exhaust mixed with plastic seats and the compounded history of an endless stream of people sleepily gripping the metal bar on their way to work every weekday morning. And I’m comfortable with that smell. To me, it says productivity, motivation, and life, even when it’s rush hour and I’m stuck sitting next to the girl who finds it necessary to gossip at high volume on the phone with her girlfriend.

I like almost everyone on the bus, even the blabbermouth with the pink sparkly Razr. I like to wonder where they’re going, what they do for a living, and if there’s someone waiting at home for them who has gotten off his or her own bus. I like to see what they’re reading, hear what music they’re listening to (even though I cringe at the thought of how loud that must be in their ears) and take count of the items they carry. Some sleep, some study, some stare at their iPods, and some eat, even though the sign says not to. I got on the bus one morning with a girl carrying a Chihuahua in a handbag and realized I’d never thought of dogs on buses. How else would you take your animal to the vet if you didn’t have a car?

Sometimes, in the mornings, I ride with a man on crutches and his young son. I like to imagine what it would have been like to ride the city bus to school. It would have lost its charm, I’m sure. I quickly would have wished for a warm car or at least a school bus filled with my classmates, just as it is possible, in December, I will wish for my own car despite the traffic and outrageous parking. But I feel it is part of my experience here to get used to it: the delays, the rainy days, the girl blabbering on her phone, and the long trek up the hill from the bus stop at night. By January I will probably shrug off the hill, learn to read in the midst of chaos, and ignore each and every other passenger. Until that time, I’m just the curious passenger in someone else’s story about their bus ride to work.