The Buses are Back
Erin Douglass
One recent night, MTA mechanics agreed to return to work after a five-week strike that halted most of L.A.'s mass transit.
The next morning, in fits and starts, buses, some trains and the subway started running.
Eager and anxious, I left the house exactly at 7 — something I'd barely been able to muster before the strike. I marched down the sidewalk, watching familiar cars drive by. I dashed across the street and balanced my bags on the bench. Then I turned to watch for my bus.
Would it come?
The MTA had warned that initial service would be spotty. I decided to wait 20 minutes before giving up and calling for a ride.
So I paced, checking out the new movie ads that plastered the stop. I watched men in shorts deliver bread to Ralphs. I stared down passing cars, daring them to laugh at my optimism.
And then it appeared. My bus.
Headlights beaming, it loomed over surrounding cars like a duck with her brood. It was an older model and 10 minutes late, but I didn't care. There it was — my bus! — rumbling toward me, just like old times.
As it pulled up to the curb, I noticed a sign in the window. "We're glad to be back," it announced in English and Spanish. "Me, too," I said, as I grabbed my things.
The doors slapped opened. "It's the bus!" I cried. The driver — one of my favorites with her long dark hair and oversize sunglasses — grinned and said, "Yes."
There was only one passenger on board. She smiled, then resumed a conversation in Spanish with the driver. They were talking about the strike. It sounded like the driver had gone to San Diego. Whether it was on vacation or to work, I couldn't tell.
As we cruised east, a few changes caught my eye. First, the interior boasted not one, but two digital signs. Foot-long panels mounted from the ceiling — one over the driver's head, the other halfway back, near the second door — these mini SigAlerts provided a running, digital commentary of the date and time.
That could get old pretty quickly, I thought, turning away from the march of yellow type. And yet that first morning back, the signs felt celebratory and proud, like banners at a parade.
The second change I noticed: some passing buses had a snazzy new look. Unlike the old warhorses with their Creamsicle orange and dingy white, the new buses sported fresh pumpkin-colored paint, plus a silvery stripe. The word "Local" was emblazoned near the door.
Maybe that's what the mechanics had been doing all this time, I thought, admiring the change. Rebranding the fleet.
Meanwhile, we sailed past empty stop after empty stop. When people did finally board, at Western, they looked relieved. Some smiled, others shook their heads and clicked their tongues.
One chubby boy climbed aboard with a big smile. He threw his overstuffed backpack onto a seat and plunked down next to it.
After several minutes, he twisted around and caught my eye. "What time is it?" I glanced at my watch. "7:21." I looked up, just as the SigAlert flashed "7:23" across its screen.
These signs are going to take some getting used to.
Suddenly, a canned female voice blared, "Stop requested!" Startled, I looked around. Both SigAlerts had "Stop Requested" frozen on their screens. A young man waited patiently at the back steps.
This new feature — a nasal, disembodied broadcast each time the cord was pulled — didn't feel celebratory. It was just annoying.
The bus was filling up. Several high school kids got on and yelled hello to a friend in the back. There were single men in caps and jeans, or wearing the checkered pants of restaurant chefs. Elderly women with plastic bags clustered near the front.
Then a scraggly guy climbed aboard holding a steaming paper cup.
"Careful with the coffee, sir," the driver said.
"Thank you, lady," the man slurred, almost losing his balance. "Not everyone is as nice as you." He tottered toward a seat.
"November 19, 2003…7:44 am," the signs flashed.
"Stop requested!" the voice blared.
It's good to be back.