Man Of The (Bus) People

I am a man of the people. This isn’t new to me, rather it’s a rediscovery. Considering my history of traipsing city streets like the Scottish country side, and riding public transit into the sunset like a horse with no name, it’s become obvious that my recent years of comfortable living have rendered me socially infertile. I have pretty much driven everywhere I’ve needed to go for the last decade, save a car-less vacation. So, having not spent more than a collective hour a month on sidewalks, walking and stopping, watching and conversing among the common folk, my world has slowly rotted into a slimy, pessimistic bubble of me and mine only, justified through grave cynicism and enforced by walls of vehicular security.

I have recently shed myself of the financial burden my automobile and it’s weighty East coast insurance brought. Armed with a bike and a bus pass, I have forcibly thrust myself into the city’s loins to navigate my way to and from work and anywhere in-between without the comfort of a modern day transporter. The liberation has been thrilling, letting what little trepidation arises to be doused by waves of fresh air flowing through my mane while awaiting my transfer at Kennedy plaza.

Riding the bus is part of being a minority. This is my heritage. A custom, if you will, passed down through generations. There are hundreds of people riding the bus each day, many of which wandering this vast plaza that all routes pass, like an exchanging of pollen the buzzing buses require to survive. The riders, all unique and beautiful, almost none of them white. Those few who are caucasian fall easily into either the “college student” or “white trash” classifications. This is the place where we of pigment sometimes pass, sometimes nod, but always reunite for loud, busy-handed conversations, in the dialect of choice, regarding everyday trite.

Because I am way too tired from constantly walking to write a wonderfully descriptive parable, I’ll keep my newest insights concise and bulleted.

* It has occurred to me that some people talk merely to hear the vibrations their vocal folds make turn into shit. Loudly, because no one else talks on a bus, they force unnecessary questions at the other person to assert to the rest of the riders that they know someone and have what all doltish and mentally disturbed people consider a valuable commodity: company. I’m all for chatting randomly, however I rarely fling the poo sound all over others comfortable silence.

* If you haven’t worked out in a year, it’s harder to do things as easily and painlessly as you did back then. Thank you, new bicycle.

* Female back tattoos are alive and... alive. Americans have a long, storied history of getting stupid tattoos. This won’t be my soapbox for ribbing tribal wraps and cartoon characters. But, I must say, some people will put anything on their body permanently. ANYTHING. You see, your body is your business, but when your lack of clothing and tact force me to witness your ridiculousness, it becomes my business. So, instead of bitching I’m actually thinking constructively. How about a sudoku tramp stamp? Or a crossword puzzle lower back tat with clues drawn on your also-exposed side flaps? Just trying to make you more useful. Either way, I made a Facebook gift app to help come to terms with that which I can not control.

* The bus driver is not an authority, merely a tool. They vary in intelligence, patience and congeniality. Keep your words few and your movements behind the yellow line.

I am a man of the people and now I walk amongst the people, unprotected by the vehicular shell that I use to rely on quickly escorting me from these very places. Walking and stopping, watching and conversing. Sometimes passing, sometimes nodding. Always with my people.