Brake Job
Erin Douglass
The Rapid bus isn't my favorite line in the system. It's often surly, crowded and too loud. But, true to its name, it sure can be speedy.
Recently I boarded one of the bright red Rapids downtown in the middle of the afternoon. I had an appointment on the Westside and figured that the Rapid, rather than the stop-and-start local bus, was my best bet.
The driver seemed sane enough when I boarded. A man with graying hair and round glasses, he looked like he belonged before a class, not behind a wheel. I flashed my pass and said hello; he nodded. Then I chose one of the few vacant seats and made myself comfortable for the long cross-town ride.
I noticed the heavy braking when we hit Wilshire Boulevard. After closing its doors, the bus would pull from the curb and tear down the street. A light or stop would loom, but rather than gradually slow, the driver would zoom toward the target then brake hard at the last minute.
Every time this happened, we passengers would lurch forward and then slam back against the seat, or the pole, or the closest rider. Some people would respond with a giggle or yelp. Others suffered in silence. I chose to brace my knees against the seatback before me and put away my magazine.
As we neared La Brea Avenue, a white Ford Explorer (seriously) pulled out from a side street into the lane directly in front us.
I figure we were going about 45 mph. The Explorer: maybe 30.
The bus driver honked and braked hard to slow our speed. The load of us heaved forward, riders grabbing each other to keep from falling. The Explorer, realizing its peril, swerved to the curb. With feet to spare, we whisked by, as our driver slowly shook his head and several passengers crossed themselves.
In the midst of the ensuing hubbub, a woman near me turned to her neighbor.
"I was on the bus last week, with a mother and her baby sitting right here." She motioned to her spot on the front, sideways bench.
"Driver slammed on the brakes and they both flew to the front. The baby was okay, but that mother needed help." Those of us in listening range tisked our tongues and held on tighter.
We sped along, signs and cars whizzing by. Intersections blurred. The chatter quieted. Our hands relaxed on poles and packages.
Out of the blue — and I mean out of the blue, for there wasn't an Explorer, bus stop or red light in sight — the driver stomped on the brakes. Obeying the laws of physics, we surged forward, bags tumbling.
"That's the second time!" yelled a woman from the back.
I peered over my shoulder in the direction of the voice.
A woman in her 50s sat crumpled on the floor, surrounded by coats and paper bags.
"The second time," she sputtered again, as arms reached down to help her. Leaning and struggling, she climbed back into her seat and tucked herself in place, before shooting the driver an angry look.
It was then that I noticed where the woman had been perched.
The Middle Back Bench Seat. A seat of dread.
Even on pokey trips across town with the gentlest driver at the helm, the MBBS can be treacherous. There's nothing to hold on to. There's nothing in front of you. And for patrons under five-foot-five, there's nothing below your feet, if you sit back far enough.
I shook my head and turned around. I'd almost spilled from that seat a time or two. With our brake-happy driver, it was a wonder that the woman hadn't flown 20 feet.
For the rest of the trip we continued to lurch and sway, but no grocery bags spilled, no passengers fell. By the time we passed the VA, I'd even relaxed my grip on my things and allowed myself to doze.
Finally, my stop was next. After pulling the sagging yellow cord, I grabbed my bags and stepped carefully toward the back door.
My body waited for the familiar slowing of the vehicle. But it didn't come. I looked toward the front. A yellow traffic light glowed. Beyond it: my stop. The driver sped through the intersection as the light turned red, and — no surprise this time — banged to a halt at my stop.
As I stepped off the bus, I caught the bus driver's face in his mirror.
I could've sworn he was winking.