Native Prose – Bus 52

Time has a way of becoming more valuable once enough of it has been taken from you. I want to say this every time one of the kids tells me they’re bored. Bored! What I would give to have even an extra hour in the day. A little time to myself.

It doesn’t help that I can’t stand my job. It’s not a bad place, really. The people are pretty nice, at least most of them. It’s the work that drives me crazy. I spend the best hours of my days scheduling other people’s meetings and transferring other people’s calls. It’s tedious and dull, and almost universally unappreciated by those who benefit from it.

That’s why, one gorgeous morning last June, when I left the office to pick up the mail, I climbed aboard city bus No. 52 after it pulled up to the curb.

I paid my fare and sat in the first open seat, wondering how long it would take for my boss to notice I was gone.

Rush hour had ended, so most of the passengers were either elderly women struggling with wire shopping carts or young mothers struggling with strollers. One of the mothers sat across the aisle from me, her back straight, her long arms folded around the squirming toddler on her lap.

I couldn’t remember the last time I rode a public bus. Was it in college? Before I got my driver’s license? Diesel fumes drifted through the open windows. The rows of vinyl seats squeaked whenever we hit a bump.

I found myself wondering where the other passengers were going, where they were coming from, what their lives were like. A middle-aged Asian woman got on holding a pet carrier with a live hen inside. The poor thing clucked and flapped and made all sorts of racket until, finally, she gave the carrier a good smack with the heel of her hand.

 

The high-rise neighborhood where I worked gradually gave way to breezy, tree-lined boulevards. We stopped beside a large pond surrounded by a wide path. People were out jogging and walking their dogs, enjoying the beautiful day. How is it that these people don’t have to work?

A man wearing a business suit with a backpack flung over his shoulder took the seat next to mine. I’ve never understood the suit-backpack combination. The two things seem to cancel each other out, one more or less ruining the integrity of the other.

He looked to be about my age, mid- to late-30s, healthy, like a guy who goes to the gym a lot and makes a habit of choosing salads over burgers. He’s busy flipping through email on his phone when he turns to me and says, “Nice day, huh?”

Living in the Northeast, I’m not accustomed to strangers talking to me. It’s unnerving. As soon as someone says “hello,” I’m expecting to be presented with a Jesus pamphlet or a time-share sales pitch. This guy, though, had an accent, which meant he was probably from out of town.

“Very nice,” I say, turning toward the window.

“I’m Ben,” the guy says, “from Toronto.”

Canadian. This fact pretty much makes it impossible for me to be rude. Even indifference is tough with Canadians.

He says he’s in the city for a conference, so I tell him how I got on the bus when I was supposed to be getting the mail.

“Why don’t you look for a new job doing something you like?” he says.

“I don’t know what I like,” I tell him.

It’s true. If someone told me I could have a job doing anything I wanted, I don’t even know what I would choose. I’m a single mom with three kids. I go to work, and then I buy groceries and come home and cook dinner. That’s about all I know.

“You should think about it,” Ben says. “I went to college for biology, but when I got my first job out of school, I realized I hated working in labs. Now I’m a software developer.”

He says this with such cheer I can’t help cracking a smile.

When Ben gets off the bus a few stops later, he helps one of the old ladies down the steps with her shopping cart, making sure she’s safely on the sidewalk before striding off to his meeting.

The leafy neighborhood gradually becomes a residential area, a poor one by the look of the run-down triple-deckers packed into tight rows along the streets. Old men, engrossed in conversation, hold court in lawn chairs set up in front of a corner store. Two women lean against a parked car in front of a laundromat, one of them cuddling a miniature dog, the other with a basket of clothes pressed to her hip.

The people getting onto the bus now all speak languages I don’t understand: Spanish and Portuguese and who knows what else. Several of them seem to know each other, making me feel self-conscious and out of place.

The bus stops beside a small park, no bigger than a housing lot. At first glance, it seems to offer visitors little more than a pair of benches and a few trees. But when I look again, I see that the little green space overlooks a tiny pond.

I hop off the bus just before the doors close. Ducks, adults and fluffy chicks, nearly cover the surface of the water. A small girl and her mother stand at the pond’s edge watching them, the child’s eyes full of wonder.

I sat on a park bench well into the afternoon. My cellphone never rang. My office never even bothered to text me.

When I go to work the next day, no one says anything about me being away. No one asks where the mail is. And somehow the people, the building, all of it seems different. Not better, just not as important.

It’s snowing now. I’m sure Ben is back in Toronto, running for the subway with his backpack thrown over his shoulder. The baby ducks have all flown, and I still don’t like my job. But every day when I leave the office I keep an eye out for No. 52. Seeing that blue and white bus appear over the crest of the hill always reminds me that I’m not alone.