Strike
Erin Douglass
The fires have subsided. Ralphs' picketers are gone. Even our governors — incoming Arnold, outgoing Gray — are new best buds.
But the buses?
They're still not running.
It's the fifth week of the strike. Or is it the tenth? I can't keep track.
All I know is that I miss the bus.
I miss the two-toned whistle of the engine. I miss the chugchugchug of the brakes. I miss the world-weary drivers, the herds of teens. I even miss the public service ads.
Mostly, I miss my freedom.
Since all things MTA came to a halt over healthcare benefits for the Authority's mechanics, I've carpooled, walked, begged rides and borrowed a car.
I'm grateful for these alternatives, I really am. But they're not the bus.
Because the bus boasts myriad plusses. It's cheap. It's tall. It's undemanding. Someone else drives it. Someone else insures it. Someone else parallel parks it.
Best of all, the bus provides that often elusive Los Angeles commodity: community.
My fellow riders are a colorful bunch. Youngish and oldish. Lively and passive. Quirky and buttoned. I've been thinking about them a lot.
There's Terry, the sharp dresser with the Raiders bag who gets on near Hancock Park. About a year ago he leaned across the aisle and said, "Those are great shoes." We've been friends ever since.
Then there's the quiet man in the gray suit who gets on near La Brea. All he ever carries is a paper-sack lunch — a sharp, old-fashioned contrast to others' briefcases, backpacks and shopping bags. I often wonder what his story is.
There's the Belmont kid who gets on at the carwash. I love his curly hair and funky vibe.
The young mother shepherding her impish twins to school. They're the most beautiful children I've ever seen.
The spry old fellow in the newsboy cap who sits next to others, even when empty rows abound.
The prim woman with the pink sweater sets who crosses herself as we pass St. Kevin's.
How are they doing? Are they getting where they need to go?
The first morning of the strike, I heard the news in the shower.
Damn, I thought and dropped the soap. Weren't they starting tomorrow? I jumped out and called a co-worker.
"The strike started," I said, hair dripping. "Can you give me a ride?"
"Jessica's driving," she said. "If you could make it over here…"
Glancing at the clock, I said: "I can be there by 8."
Forty minutes later I was ready: gym shoes on, bags packed, bus pass stowed. "I'm off to the races," I told the cat. Then out the door, down to the corner and by the empty bus stop I marched. Through a neighborhood. Across a busy street. Then down the long, long blocks of an L.A. boulevard.
It was exhilarating, my walk. It felt out of the ordinary and exciting, like a snow delay or a motorcycle ride. Except for the occasional dog walker, I had the sidewalks to myself. It could have been Christmas.
With time to spare, I stopped for coffee. Catching my breath, I glanced at others in line. Everyone was perfectly coiffed and wore expensive, impractical shoes. Looking every inch the disheveled gym teacher, I grabbed my drink and headed for the door.
It was 7:50 a.m. Were it any other morning, I'd have been stepping off the bus near my building downtown.
Since that first morning, I have become A Carpooler. Gratefully, I climb into another's car at the start and end of each day. Music plays quietly. The seats are clean. The heat is neither too hot or too faint.
And yet, I pine. Soon this strike will end. It must.
Until then, I'll think about Terry, the quiet man and the curly-haired kid. Who knows? Maybe I'll see one of them look over from the backseat of a carpool or cab.