elizabethlevett

I was sitting by the window on the #33 Ashbury one day recently, when a man backed his car into the side of the bus. He slammed into us right under my window. Funny thing, I barely reacted. Just looked up at the driver for some indication as to whether we’d all need to get off and walk up to Fulton Street. This was not the first time I’ve been on a bus when something happened. Like the time when the #43 hit something in the road and some part of the undercarriage dislodged and ground its way to the pavement, dragging noisily for several yards before the driver pulled over and I got out and walked.

Here’s what’s funny. None of these incidents dissuade me from flashing my Clipper card at whatever comes along and taking my place among the assorted members of our human family who decide to try their luck on public transportation to get from one place to another. It’s just part of the ride. Included in the fare.

I even feel a strange loyalty to bus riding. I defend my choice when friends insist that they’re happy to pick me up or ask if I’d like them to call an Uber. It’s all good, is what I say. I love sitting by the window and just taking it all in, seeing what there is to see along the way without having to make conversation or help search for parking.

And I think, more than anything, that it’s the people on the bus that I’m drawn to. There’s something about being a witness for the lady navigating a stroller past the phone-fixated person leaning against the door frame or the sudden appearance of that guy who always dresses like he may be on his way to see Herman’s Hermits on American Bandstand. Almost daily I’ve seen countless examples of genuine courtesy and concern when a young person offers their seat or helps lift a heavy package or operates the release for a wheelchair user. And then other moments are hilarious. There’s the driver who suddenly pulled over, got out of her seat, and then stood over a young man who had been exposing himself to the girl next to him. “You better put that away unless you wanna go to jail.” Scared the pants back on him. Or the driver who stopped on Hayes Street one morning, leaned out the window and yelled, “How come you’re not in school?” A bus is a slice of community, a part of something bigger than itself, while also a country unto itself. I guess I don’t want to miss out, don’t want to lose touch with the brief and surprising kindnesses and moments of outrageous humor.

There are some bus stories that have become legendary, even if the details may have changed in the telling. Like the famous story of a woman who comes to the door of the bus with a live chicken. The location varies. Sometimes it took place on the #14 Mission, other times it’s the #30 Stockton. The origin of the chicken, its backstory, is never sufficiently explained. What doesn’t change is this: The bus driver says, “Hey lady, you can’t bring a live chicken on this bus.” So, the lady snaps the chicken’s neck – with dispatch, as they say – and proceeds to board the bus with the now dead chicken and the rest of her parcels. Wild.

There are moments though. Scary stuff does happen. Recently a guy got on in the Presidio and started a conversation with the man next to him. “Where’d you train, man?” Since neither one was in uniform, I had to wonder, how veterans always seem to recognize one another. Then the first man, with a sculpted, comic-book worthy tough guy face, complete with exaggerated underbite, said this; “I was in a scrap once, man. Had me in the brig for 199 days. I was scraping barnacles off the ship.” Whoa. I didn’t realize they still did things like that. You can’t find copy this interesting anywhere else! Then was that day when one guy pulled a knife out and started chasing another guy from the rear end of the #38 Geary toward the front before they both got out around Stanyan Street. Or the late afternoon when a driver had a sudden stroke and lost consciousness. The bus veered off course and ploughed straight across the panhandle from Oak almost all the way to Fell before a passenger took the wheel and figured out the brakes.

In general, it’s not at all this harrowing to ride a bus. There are plenty of charming people, beautiful babies, folks with well-trained service dogs, cute young couples, and old folks with wonderful stories. At any moment a man in a Stetson hat may lean over and say, “Ma’am, you look just like a movie star.” Or two elderly ladies suddenly embrace, recognizing each other from their school days.

At times though, the reality can break my heart. Like that man at Christmas time. He got on and started talking in earnest with anyone who happened to look up. Until his conversation took a curious turn. “Not yet, you guys! We’ll get off at Target, up at the next stop, and we’ll get all the stuff. Man, kids, they drive you crazy. No more fostering for you guys. I hope you get adopted soon.” I didn’t look back to see who he was talking to. I confess now, I’d already drawn my conclusion.  And I was following the old standard warning we often fall back on when we feel uncomfortable – don’t make eye contact. Suddenly the man said, “Okay, you guys, come on!” And then he got off. That’s when I decided to see for myself. As people began crowding on after he’d stepped down there was this; “Hey, be careful! You’ll step on the kids! Get off, you guys, come on!” Nobody was there. No kids. The bus pulled away and left him waving his arms. And I can’t forget him. Maybe in the end that is the draw. I feel like I, or maybe we, need these occasional reminders. If a bus is a microcosm of a city, or of a country, then it serves as a reminder that anything can happen to anyone at any time. And we often don’t realize the suffering in our neighbors. This chance for reflection, this too is included in the fare.

KQED on air link for Perspectives broadcast of this piece: https://www.kqed.org/perspectives/201601145474/elizabeth-levett-fortier-the-people-on-the-bus