In This Wild World
Erin Douglass
Some public transportation experiences are better than others. Last night's ride home was not one of them.
First, the bus was an hour late. "It's the Lakers game at Staples," one guy told me. "There's a protest downtown," said another. "Olympic buses are getting rerouted."
That explained why unfamiliar 2s, 4s and 304s kept sailing by, passengers as perplexed as we surely looked marooned on the curb. But that didn't make the wait any easier.
When the bus finally did show up, it was packed to the grill. In Mexico, in India, maybe I would have boarded. Yesterday, in downtown L.A., I did not.
"There's another right behind," promised the driver over heads and shoulders.
Fine.
But there wasn't another — at least not for 40 eternal, increasingly chilly minutes during which I unsuccessfully convinced a fellow passenger to split a cab, narrowly missed plowing into two frail women, and realized that the gallon of water I'd guzzled before leaving was, suddenly, raring to go.
Weren't we all.
Finally, after calling my solo-driver husband in mid-commute to gripe about delays and rattle off a grocery list, I spotted my bus.
While it, too, was crowded, at least this time I could see gaps between the shoulder straps and bags. I stepped aboard, grateful to be out of the cold.
That's when the whistling started.
This wasn't a Hey Baby kind of whistle. Nor was it an I've Got a Tune Stuck in My Head kind of whistle, or even an Isn't Life Grand kind of whistle. This was a steady, high-pitched blow, like a tea kettle. Or an oncoming train.
And it wouldn't stop.
Sure, there were pauses for breath every few moments. But other than that, the sound continued, unabated, sharp as cheese. I clung to the strap, praying for the speedy arrival of the blower's stop.
It didn't come. Instead, more people climbed aboard, forcing the driver to growl "Everybody BACK" into the mic. Joining the tide, I moved a few steps to my left. The whistling stopped.
How nice, the entire bus seemed to breathe.
Suddenly, a barking laugh erupted from the back. Then foot stomping, followed by raucous clapping. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder and caught the eye of a stubble-faced man in a flannel shirt. He was sitting in the center back row and looked pissed.
The whistling restarted. It was him.
A drunk, I thought, almost losing my balance as the bus veered right. Glad I'm not trapped back there with him.
We lurched to a stop. More people boarded. The driver, glaring into his rearview mirror, yelled "Move BACK, people!" I hesitated, not wanting to enter The Whistler's realm. "Excuse me, ma'am," a woman said, pushing past. I followed her lead and planted myself next to a pole several rows from the back — not too close, yet free from the congestion near the door.
The bus sped down the hill. When it banged to a halt at Alvarado, several guys from the back stood up to leave. One of them was The Whistler.
The first two guys squeezed by. The Whistler seemed about to do the same, but stopped at my shoulder. Without turning his head, he whispered close to my ear, "So...timid."
I didn't move, not sure if he was speaking to me.
He leaned closer. "And in this wild world." Then he pushed toward the door, looked back at me once and jumped down the steps to the sidewalk.
Timid? Wild world? What was he talking about?
More importantly, why was he talking to me?
I grabbed a freshly free seat, feeling annoyed and creeped out. Timid. Wild world. Timid. Wild world. "Whatever, man," I said aloud to no one in particular.
Yet the more I replayed the brief interaction, the more I realized that this man — whether drunk, mad or just bored — had pegged me for what I'd been.
Reluctant.
Reluctant to get near him. Reluctant to make eye contact. Reluctant to deal with someone who was trying his darndest to get some attention.
Don't get me wrong: I don't think I should have gone back there and sat on his lap. But isn't it interesting how people, strangers, can smell our curiosity, our interest, our fear.
When my stop finally arrived it was 7:30. A trip that takes an hour "desk to door" had taken two. I groaned and stepped slowly to the curb.
"You have a good night," the driver said to my back. I waved over my shoulder and headed up the street, the wild world whistling in my ears.