The Case of Mysterious Anger on the B62 Bus Line
by caitlin macrae
Something is wrong with the bus drivers of north Brooklyn. I’d like to chalk it up to the arrival of these new chatty buses, the result of hours upon hours of driving across town listening those pesky recorded voices. That condescending, know-it-all motherfucker intoning demands to move away from the doors even when 
you’re trying to exit, the shrill smarm of the woman exhorting everyone to please exit through the rear doors every time the stop button is pushed, even though people will continue to shove their way to the front doors no matter what she says. I’d like to blame it on these stupid buses, but I don’t think I can. The buses have been here for a while; the drivers have started to scare me only recently.
They are flying down the streets. This feels nice when I’m on the bus, late for work and need to move quickly, but less so when standing on the street in the middle of a heat wave. They are not stopping at the stops even when there are people there, leaving folks stranded in the humid air with sweaty upper lips and pink cheeks, much later now than they wanted to be. They shame old ladies whose cards have run out. I have seen this happen six times in the past week, the same scenario. “Ain’t gonna matter how many times you swipe that card, it’s empty. Empty, empty, empty. You listenin’ to me? Ain’t gonna happen, lady. Just ain’t gonna happen.” The women look down at their orthopedic sandals, toes encased in nylons. They shuffle through their change purses and pull out crumpled dollars. “What you think this is? We don’t take dollars! Shit!” The buses, you see, do not take dollar bills; unless you’re wandering around with two hundred and twenty-five cents packed away in your pockets, you’re shit out of luck. So the old women shuffle down the aisles, holding bills out hoping someone will have change while the drivers mutter their irritation. There is more honking, more yelling at other drivers, a surprising amount of unrestrained swearing. Someone asks for the back doors, notoriously sticky, to be opened. Ignored, they ask more than once. “Can you just wait a minute? Hold up, DAMN!”
Everyone on this air-conditioned, super talky, driven-by-an-angry-person bus seems to take on this blind rage, the feel tense and irritated. Nobody gives their seat up for anyone; people with big, bulky packages are roundly shunned with unmoved shins and feet, unapologetic shoulder nudges. Of all the places to be in a heat wave, you’d think that an air-conditioned boat, careening down the road would be the happening place to be, soothing enough to unfurl the white banner of inner calm. But it’s becoming less and less worth it, and I find myself taking to the pavement a few stops early, where the crazy gets muffled by the warm sticky air.
[img via]
