Cold and Shocking
Erin Douglass
I'm grateful for the bus. I really am.
Weekday mornings I march to the corner and a spacious vehicle, more or less on time, picks me up and whisks me away.
It's a pretty good system.
That doesn't mean I don't have a complaint or two.
Like the air conditioning.
Bus AC is ridiculously cold. Subtle as an Arctic blast, it doesn't just "condition" the air, it freezes it solid.
To step into the deep chill of an air conditioned bus — particularly from a mild summer evening — is to step into a meat locker. Frigid, enveloping, with an odd smell attached.
Worse, bus air conditioning shoots from an infinite number of unseen vents. No seat is safe. Wherever you perch, feet quickly grow numb. Legs turn blue. Eyes tear.
And it's louder than blazes.
A rattling roar of a system, bus AC drowns out sound. Only the heartiest, most insistent noises — truck horns, air raid sirens, Celine Dion — can pierce the din. Everything else gets squashed into a muffle, like it's been packed in cotton.
Unfortunately, bus drivers don't just turn on the AC to cool down the back 30. They crank the air to stay awake. To flush out undesirables. Heck, to freeze leftovers from lunch.
Last week, I stepped from a gentle, balmy evening onto the coldest bus yet. Hunched against the dank, I knew I had only moments to act.
Stowing my bags, I buttoned my sweater chin-high. Then I pulled out the Emergency Scarf and wrapped it tightly. I searched pockets for forlorn winter gloves.
Settled in, I glanced around at my fellow passengers. Surely they, too, were chilled to the hamstring. But hard as I looked, I spotted not a tooth chattering. Not a goosebump. Not even a shiver.
Was I the only one wishing for hot chocolate and another layer?
I couldn't have been.
Fine-boned women, four feet tall and lean as Lance Armstrong, sat in front of me. They must have been cold.
A baby, sporting only baby t-shirt and baby shorts, bounced on his mother's lap near the front. Surely he was cold.
Teenage girls in tank tops and capris giggled in the back. They must have felt some chill.
Comforted by this, I sat there, shivering, and counted the stops until home.
My second complaint is more widely shared. It involves the insufficiencies of bus shocks.
So critical to a pleasant ride, these mechanical parts aim to soften the blow of gigantic tires meeting decaying asphalt.
Let me tell you: they ain't working.
Oddly enough, the worst shocks seem to live in the MTA's newest fleet of buses.
This fresh crop boasts many fine features. More leg room, wider windows, easier access for the handicapped.
Yet get the buses going over 10 mph and you'll experience their most obvious — and least pleasant — new offering: a teeth-rattling bounciness.
Now I'm no priss. I can jolt, lurch, sway and reel right along with the best of them without getting green.
Until now.
One morning last week a brand spanking new bus pulled up to my stop. I boarded, admired the wide, vacant rows and grabbed a seat near the middle as we gunned from the curb.
Wow, I thought happily, righting my gym bag. We'll be downtown in no time.
Little did I know that speed came at a price.
The faster we barreled down the still-quiet streets, the more noise we made. Seats rattled Magic Fingers-style. Windows clattered in their frames. And every few minutes a metallic, crashing noise erupted from the back.
It sounded like a swordfight.
Stashing my reading material, I held on for dear life. Thanks in part to the 19,000 potholes that dot our gracious boulevards, my teeth clattered constantly. My tongue, aware of its peril, tried to stay clear.
Then I noticed the jiggling.
Every unexercised part of me — parts I didn't even know I had — were quivering, merry as Jello. With each fresh bounce, a new spot would respond and jiggle for several seconds.
Staring down at my feet, I gasped. Even my ankles were wobbling.
I felt like a bellydancer past her prime.
The only thing that made this thrill ride bearable was watching how others adapted to the jolts. Elderly women clenched their seats and braced themselves against wall and floor. Teens took seats and hugged their books, muttering "JE-sus!" after every bang. Even stoic businessmen folded their papers, closing their eyes and pretending to sleep.
When I finally got off, a bit queasy and cranky, I made a promise to myself.
Never again would I complain about a bus's air conditioning.
At least it leaves you numb.