The Nut Bus
Erin Douglass
Several nights ago, my bus ride home was packed with more character than a Summer Stock stage.
First, there was the old man wearing a tweed cap and gripping a roller bag.
Sprawled across two front seats, he clapped when I got on, which was nice, until I realized that it wasn't personal. He clapped at every stop, whether someone boarded or not. When he wasn't clapping, he was talking to the empty front row. The only word I could make out was "jail."
Then there was the gangly teenage boy who bounced up the steps, sped down the aisle and pushed by a cute girl to take the seat between her and the window.
"Wow. That was ballsy," I thought. Teenagers flirt on the bus, but usually across the aisle. Or on their cell phones.
The boy, sporting geeky glasses and buzzed hair, proceeded to pepper the girl with questions. What was her name? Where did she go to school? Did she live close by? The girl, smiling wanly, answered in monosyllables. Mia. Belmont. Just over there.
As she spoke, he leaned toward her, peering down her blouse. Just when I was considering an intervention, she jumped up, chirped, "This is my stop. Bye!" and marched to the door.
The boy, unfazed, leered at her through the window as we drove away. Then he laughed like a classic movie maniac, clapped — Great, another clapper — and started to check out the other girls on the bus.
Finally that night, there was the shrieker.
One moment I was lost in thought, watching the storefronts whish by. The next a bloodcurdling scream was blowing my left eardrum to bits.
Alarmed, I turned around. A squat woman with disheveled hair and a gaggle of bags was standing directly behind me, at the back exit, mouth open wide at the world.
"Back door, miss! Back door!" she shrieked at our male driver.
The driver, unaware he was being summoned or ignoring the woman entirely, didn't respond.
Eyes squeezed shut, the woman started to make throaty, gurgling noises that got louder and louder. The gurgles turned into a frenzied quacking. Passengers turned and stared. I felt like switching seats, but decided against it. What if she turned on me?
Finally, the driver opened the back door and the woman thudded down the steps, fists flailing, hair flying. Once on the street, she turned and gave the side of the bus a strong kick.
"Loca," one of the men near me muttered, shaking his head.
You betcha, we all thought in reply, as the old man clapped anew.
Even the vehicle itself seemed crazy that night. It rattled, groaned and wheezed in ways I've never heard a bus rattle, groan and wheeze. It was filthy: covered in more graffiti than usual, seats stained, trash strewn. And it smelled. Like feet.
But what could I do? I'd already invested too many minutes with this bus, this driver, this MTA production to hop off and wait for another.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I sat back, said a quiet thank you for the sudden calm, and let myself bounce westward on the nutty night bus.