Bus People
by Liz Mathews
This fall, for four and a half weekends and counting, the worst part of public transportation has been the complete lack of underground service. Thus, riding the bus has become the way of getting around, at least for those of us who live along the F or G lines anywhere between Brooklyn Heights and Kensington.
A friend recently suggested that people who take the bus are “bus people,” and even if one is not normally a bus person, one becomes one once on the bus. Therefore, taking the bus is a dangerous social experiment. Bus people are the ones who loiter near the cash registers at stores, waiting to get quarters for bus fare. Bus people are those happy to stand 
alongside the street—or in the street—craning their necks in bus anticipation. Bus people are willing to pay for a ride that stops fifteen gazillion times between points A and B.
But lately, at least where I live, bus people and train people and all people are melding. The other evening I was on a bus, and two dudes sat down near me. We were all fascinated by our bus—though I hid my fascination behind my scarf—because it was one of those buses that bends in the center. The young men sat in the center seats.
“This is my favorite seat on these buses! When I first saw this kind of bus, I was like, ‘What the fuck?’” one of them exclaimed. He was wearing a Brooklyn College hoodie.
I was amused, as was his friend. The bus turned a corner, and a squeeeeewhooosquee emanated from the rotating area. I hid my jealousy by looking out the rain-streaked windows. We went around another corner, and something plunk-clattered to the floor.
“Dammit,” Brooklyn College said, and leaned under his seat-in-rotation to retrieve his phone. “Thing’s broken,” he sighed as he began tossing it from palm to palm.
“Hey dude, we’re almost by my old school,” his friend announced with the awe that comes from being able to see things out windows.
“When I graduated high school, I had 149 detentions,” Brooklyn College stated. “There was a list, and my name was always on it.”
The bus glided to a halt at the second-to-last stop on its shuttle tour. Brooklyn College dropped his phone again. “Screen’s all cracked,” he complained, poking at it once we resumed rolling. “I want an iPhone. But I make $8 an hour. Should join a union.”
“You gotta stop working for your dad, man,” his friend offered. “’Swhat I did. Yeah, I work harder, but I make twice that.”
“Eh, what do I care, $8? I don’t pay rent. Some people gotta pay rent on $8.” Brooklyn College stood up as the bus rotated around the final corner of the route. “Hey, we pass Church Ave?”
We had actually just arrived at Church. I stood up, too. Then everyone stood up, and we all filed off the bus. That was that.
Once none of us were bus people anymore, we became people who walk in the rain. And then people who buy beer at the Mobile Station, or people who drop the keys trying to get into their buildings. I was grateful for this as I picked up my keys. I didn’t want to be a bus person anymore.
