Rode the bus recently for the first time in many years. Car repair all day affair, no ride home. Bike's broke and forget walking. Hang with computer for day at nearby library?
Unpremeditated obviousness: take the bus. Crossed Wilson Mills Blvd and asked the dude sitting there how much fare was. $2.25? Only a buck in my "good old days" mind.
Driver observed my unschooled attempt to put coins in ticket slot and confirmed Green Road nexus. Sitting in too chilly AC I swear I heard the same bump-induced clacks and rattles as in 1981, on the Desire bus in New Orleans (yes, true). Eternal echo, like the butterfly effect.
Weirdness bloomed on the journey's second leg. Not from the 13 people aboard. From the public service signs perched above the windows. No issues with the young blood rocking cool headphones, word search book lady, blank-starers or texting Tammy.
It was the lurking disasters trumpeted on cheap cardboard. Crib death ("Keep Baby Safe, Keep Baby Face Up"), psych problems ("No Energy? Overeating and Feeling Sad? Can't Sleep?"), sexual danger ("Stand Up for Love, Volunteer for a HIV Study"). And fare-beating threats, homeless Vets and law firms promising compensation for your unfathomable tragedies.
What to do with all this info? No clue. Start a foundation, make a call, tsk tsk, thank God it ain't me, cry, what?!
Unknowing, I pulled the cord and exited, glad to be home. Wondering how to avoid returning on the bus.
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