One Bad Driver
Erin Douglass
This morning I encountered a new driver on my regular 7:04 bus.
I didn't like him from the start.
This was because last week I watched him drive by not once, but twice — first on Monday, then on Wednesday — in the early-morning light.
The first time I stood on the opposite curb, waving my arms and yelling "Hey!" as the driver, zombie-like, gunned through the yellow light and roared past.
The second time, I was again on the wrong side of the street — and on the wrong side of the light. I took heart, though, when I spotted a woman at my stop. As I waited for my light to turn green, the driver stopped and picked up the woman. The light changed. I dashed across the street.
And the driver pulled from the curb.
"Wait!" I yelled. And thanks to the light 20 feet away, the bus stopped. Feeling victorious, I ran along its side and banged on the closed door.
Did he open it?
No.
Did he turn his head?
No.
And yes, then he drove away, leaving me standing on the curb and foaming at the mouth.
Anyhow, back to this morning, when I was finally on the right side of the street, waiting directly under my stop's sign, when he and the bus approached.
The vehicle jolted to a stop. The doors flung open. And the driver, a dark-haired, vampire-pale creature with tiny round glasses and a smirk, glanced at his watch. As if my presence on the curb indicated lateness on his part, and inconvenience on mine.
Annoyed, I climbed aboard, flashed my pass and stomped to the back. This is not like me. Usually, I trill "Good morning" and smile and then wander around, choosing the best seat from the cornucopia of available spots.
Once settled, I stashed my things and pulled out lotion, lipstick and mascara. I hate to say it, but I have become an In-transit Makeup Girl. My excuse? More sleep, of course. By carefully applying the red and the black as I bounce across town, I not only add a refreshing element of danger to my commute, I shave a good minute and a half from my pre-bus routine.
It took about three blocks — and a mascara wand almost up the nose — for me to realize I was in over my head. The guy was a lead-foot, and a lane weaver. I wondered if I'd make it downtown without turning green, let alone in one piece.
At La Cienega, the bus caroomed to a stop. A young man boarded and picked a seat near the front. Hold on tight, I thought, as we jackrabbited back into traffic.
Block after block whipped past. Where was everyone? By this time, we usually had one of the sweatered Russian ladies, a schoolgirl and the quiet man in the gray suit on board. Maybe they'd chosen to apply their makeup at home.
Suddenly, the bus banged to a stop. The driver opened the door, climbed out of his seat and hung off the top step to adjust a side mirror. Two blocks later he did it again — and re-tilted the visor. Then he grabbed a Weekly from a box on the curb.
I rolled my eyes. First fast, now slow. Doesn't this guy do middle?
La Brea, Highland, then Rossmore passed. No passengers. Larchmont. Van Ness. Western.
Western? This stop usually has eight people clustered around its bench.
The light dawned. This turkey was avoiding passengers.
Sure enough, as we waited for our red light to change, the driver inched the bus deeper and deeper into the crosswalk. Meanwhile, a north-bound local, a feeder to our east-bound line, pulled up across the street and disgorged five people. They ran toward us waving their hands and trying to make eye contact.
The moment the light changed, the bus accelerated.
What is this, some kind of joke? I thought, wrinkling my nose. Did our pilot miss the "public" part of his public transportation training?
Major stops continued to pass with no one in sight. We snuck through lights and even ran a red or two. For no apparent reason, the driver would swerve or slam on the brakes, swearing at a car or pedestrian.
I sat in back feeling irked and muttering comments.
"Watch out!"
"What are you doing?"
"Isn't that a little old lady in the crosswalk…?"
The bus swerved into the next lane. I swayed in my seat and caught a glimpse out the windshield.
Not two blocks away was the earlier bus.
I knew it! I said out loud, as we returned to our lane. You're doing it wrong!
As the "sweeper" bus on a busy route, it was his job to dawdle behind, pick up extra passengers and occasionally swoop around the lead bus to relieve it of its first-dibs' burden.
Yet my driver, somewhere back in Hancock Park, had caught up to the earlier bus and begun tailing him. The most annoying effects of such driving: the third bus in the morning progression ends up both packed and pokey, a miserable combination.
Maybe I'll write a letter, I thought, as the silver swell of the Disney Music Center appeared.
Or maybe when I get off I'll look at my watch pointedly and say, "Why all the rush?"
Turns out I did neither. When my stop arrived, I slunk out the back door and headed toward my skyscraper.