Tears On the Bus

I climbed on the bus, cellphone smashed to my ear, trying to juggle my bus pass and my bag as well as trying to make sure the phone didn't fall. My sister was talking on the other end. The despair was rising in my stomach and making its way to chest. I managed to pull my bus pass through the machine and started making my way to the back of the bus. I was still trying to listen to what my sister had to say but I was slowly growing less willing to bend my ear. Her accusations came like harsh slaps on the face. Her expectations seemed insurmountable. I was speaking in hushed strained tones as I tried desperately to explain myself, to reason with her, to tell her how I was feeling and what I was going through. She wasn't listening. It was like talking to a brick wall. She kept talking until I finally had enough and halted the conversation by telling her I didn't want to talk anymore. There were only a couple people on the bus, but they were staring at me as though I was an alien with three heads. I had found a place at the back of the bus - a window seat. I was trying to speak in even more hushed tones but the frustration was rising and I could tell I wasn't succeeding at being inconspicuous. My sister kept talking, bringing up painful memories from the past, trying to say something to convince me to see things her way. Nothing mattered but what my family thought. What about my thoughts? What about my dreams? What about my desires and how I saw things? What about my life? When did I get to start living my life and quit living everyone else's? When would my family see me as me and not a reproduction of themselves? When would I get to be my own person and be loved and respected for who I was rather than constantly being forced to conform, to fit a mold that I didn't fit?
The cell phone was growing warm in my hand. My head hurt from listening, from thinking. The desperation, the hurt, the frustration rose as tears in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. Now there were quite a few more people on the bus and a couple had seated themselves right behind me and across the aisle from me. I was embarrassed at my red, blotchy face and the tears that were still tumbling down my face; I couldn't stop the flow. It was all I could do to keep the sobs from escaping my mouth; resisting the tears was out of the question. My sister had finally said everything she wanted to say. "I love you. We can talk some more later. Bye." As she said goodbye I mumbled something and closed my phone. I turned so that I was completely facing the window. I had another 15 minute ride until I could escape the wondering probing eyes of those on the bus around me.
It was raining outside. The raindrops fell on the window and ran down it making small streams. I leaned my head against the glass and let the tears fall. I didn't care anymore who saw me. They would just have to wonder and stare. I had held it in too long; there was no resistance left. I knew the tears wouldn't fix anything but they were there and I couldn't hold them back. It was still raining outside. The gray clouds and stormy atmosphere felt like a picture of me, what I looked like inside. It was raining outside, raining inside.

Urban Bus Adventure: Counseling on the Bus

It was December, finals weeks, and I was tired from a long day of exams. I had been sitting at the bus stop for over 15 minutes waiting for the bus to arrive. When it finally got there (it was late) I noticed it was already well-packed with passengers. This particular bus route was very popular and there were very few times when the bus was empty. I looked around me and noticed there were multiple passengers boarding the bus with me and no one was getting off. "Oh, boy," I thought, "this is going to be an interesting ride." I stood at the front of the bus and scanned the rows for a free seat. I saw one toward the middle of the bus. A window seat -- Thank God! I loved looking out the window when riding the bus, especially when it was over-crowded. It acted as my escape from the craziness around me and it helped me look preoccupied so people would be less inclined to strike up a conversation with me. I quickly made my way to the seat wanting to ensure I didn't lose it to any of my fellow boarding passengers. I slid into the seat and settled my backpack on my lap. It was rather cool outside and I was thankful for the warmth of the bus and happy I had found a seat. There were several passengers that were less fortunate and they were standing, holding on to the overhead railing. The bus doors closed and we lurched forward - we were on our way. Withing a few minutes we were arriving at another stop and there were, again, multiple people waiting to board. As the people filed onto the bus I couldn't help but wonder where they were going to sit or even stand for that matter. There were no seats left and the aisle was even beginning to be very crowded. A man and woman, apparently in deep conversation, stepped onto the bus. They appeared to know each other rather well and the conversation went well beyond the usual bus banter that took place on a regular basis during most bus rides. The man seemed to be very upset about something and the woman was listening very sympathetically. They started to walk down the aisle looking for a place to positions themselves as the bus began to pull forward again. They stopped just behind me, continuing their conversation as though they weren't on a bus full of people.
Man: So I had to spend all that time getting a hold of the doctor's office just to for them to turn around and tell me they couldn't treat me until the insurance company agreed to pay for it. Can you believe it? I was outraged! I mean, I really needed help and they were doing very little to help me. Last I checked the medical profession was about helping people.
Woman: Well, things are really complicated these days. There are lots of rules and regulations for everyone to follow.
Man: I know, but how sad is that! I mean I needed help! You can't imagine the emotional strain this whole ordeal has put on me, not to mention the pain and agony from all my physical problems.
The conversation went on like this for at least ten minutes with the man painting an ever-increasingly horrifying picture of his life. He was becoming very emotional and the woman seemed to be growing more and more unsure of how to respond to him.
The bell rang and the bus pulled to a stop, opening its doors to let the passengers get off. The conversation between the man and woman was still going on but the woman was trying to politely excuse herself so she could get off the bus. Then it dawned on me that she didn't really know the man. They must have met at the bus stop waiting to catch the bus. "How strange," I thought, "for him to be discussing such personal matters with someone he doesn't know."
The woman managed to escape the conversation and the bus and the man found a free seat right behind me. The bus pulled away from the stop and I heard the man address the person in the seat next to him. "Can you believe the way people in the health care industry treat their patients?" I looked at my window to see if I could see the person's reflection in the dark glass. No luck. I'd have to settle for listening again. A woman's voice responded with some kind words for him. This started another round of stories about the man's problems and his treatment. The woman was very sympathetic and listened attentively, even offering encouragement when the man seemed very distraught. I couldn't help but find all this very funny. I was beginning to giggle in my seat. The man's stories sounded more and more dramatic and ridiculous all at the same time! After a few minutes the man had worked himself into a sort of emotional frenzy and was openly crying. The woman was trying desperately to comfort him without over-stepping her bounds. Finally the man burst out, "And you know what the worst part is? They won't even have the common decency to let you decide when your life should end. People in some big building somewhere decide how and when I should live my life! I mean, I could put myself out of all my misery, but I'm not allowed to. They won't help me heal myself and they won't let me kill myself! What is a person to do?!!! Seriously! It is such a travesty!"
The woman really didn't know how to handle this one at all. She floundered around looking for words to say. She tried to assure the man that killing himself probably wasn't the best answer, but the more she insisted the more emotional he became. By this time I was laughing so hard on the inside my sides hurt and I was trying so desperately not to show it. I didn't want to offend the man but I couldn't help but wonder why he was talking about these things with people on the bus! After a few more minutes the woman informed the man that she had to get off the bus but she was sure he would be alright and that things would get better. He sniffled and thanked her as she gathered her things and started towards the door. She kept looking back as though she was worried of what the man would do. He sat there with a very dejected look on his face muttering to himself about all his woes.
At the next stop the man pulled himself up from his seat and stood in the aisle for a moment. "Well," he said, "I guess I must keep on living until either I die or someone helps me out of my misery."
He then walked down the aisle, down the bus steps and onto the sidewalk. The bus pulled away and I looked at the man who was sitting across from me. We exchanged bewildered looks and sort of chuckled. He leaned across the aisle towards me and said, "That man needs to get some counseling."
"Yes," I agreed, "And not on the bus!"

A Sight to Behold

There he was, standing on the street corner as though he was the most normal person in the world. Having been taught that it was impolite to stare I tried several times to avert my gaze, but to no avail. I could not stop looking at this, this . . .I don't know what to call him. He was ridiculous, silly and bazaar all wrapped up in one person. He was tall and gangly with his long skinny legs poured into stone-washed bell-bottomed jeans that had bright pink lace and sequin patterns down the front of them. The jeans stopped midway between his calves and his ankles showing pink socks that disappeared inside light brown roller skates with baby pink wheels. He was wearing a fitted pink shirt and a brown jacket that hugged his torso and was half unzipped. His long, severely thin face was accentuated by bright blue 1950's style sunglasses and his long, dark hair was slicked back in a ponytail. He shuffled around on the corner, looking down at his feet and skating in circles as he waited for the light to turn green. His mannerisms were very much in the style of a junior high girl out for an afternoon romp. The man was a walking charade and I found myself wondering at why someone would feel the need to express themselves that way. I couldn't stop looking at him. The light finally turned green and as I started to pull forward the pink roller skater shoved off from the curb gliding across the crosswalk, swaying from side to side in what looked like an attempt to mimic the way girls swing their hips. I couldn't even laugh at the man. My only response was to shake my head in bewilderment and wonder why.

Being Followed

It was dusk outside. I was riding the bus home after a final. The sun had started its decent behind the western Tucson Mountains when I first stepped on the bus, and now, twenty minutes later it was almost completely out of view. I was anxious to get home before the darkness had totally set in. I was alone and I had to walk to get to my house. There were no street lights on my street and although it was a relatively safe neighbourhood, I didn't want to be walking in the dark by myself. Besides, a strange man had gotten on the bus several stops back and he hadn't quit staring at me since he got on. He was the typical unshaven, scruffy mess most of the Tucson street people are. His eyes looked bloodshot and he seemed to have hard time focusing on what he was looking at. He didn't smile or try to engage me in conversation, just stared. He had what I call a hard stare - he didn't flinch and nothing you did seemed to phase him - he just continued staring at you. I told myself I was being a tad ridiculous. The guy was probably drunk and not interested in hurting me at all. I mentally lectured myself about not letting my imagination runaway with me and not being paranoid. Still, as the other passengers on the bus got of at their perspective spots I couldn't stop the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach from rising. I turned myself so that I was facing forward but could still keep an eye on the man through his reflection in the window. Finally my stop was in sight. I leaned forward as though to push the stop button, but someone beat me to it. I turned around, there was only one other person on the bus, the staring man. I realized the bus was stopping and then noticed that this stop was the one before mine. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the man to exit. He got up but then promptly sat down when he noticed I wasn't moving. He was still staring at me, even looking me squarely in the face. He was not in the least worried that I would notice he was staring at me. My stop was now in view, I had to get off. I pushed the button and stood up to go towards the door. The man stood up as well and started towards the exit. I looked at the bus driver, giving him a half-pleading glance in the hopes he would come up with some way to help me. He was oblivious. I stepped down the stairs and started down the street. By this time it was dark outside and pretty black at that. I walked as quickly as I could. I would stop every few feet to and turn around to let the man know I was aware of his presence. He was quickening his speed; my heart was pounding, fear was starting to grip me. I was only half-way home at this point. A thousand scenarios were rushing through my mind and I was attempting to push them all aside and keep panic from taking me over. I could here the footsteps shuffling behind me. They were getting closer. Every time I looked over my shoulder I could see him behind me and I could see his face with its dead stare on it, his eyes locked on me. I made a split-second decision: I tightened my backpack and took off running. I didn't look back, I didn't stop. I ignored the burning in my lungs and the spasming in my legs; I just kept going. Down the street, down the back alley to my house, through my backyard and onto my back porch. My brother was standing on the porch talking to a friend. My grand, frantic entrance caused him to arch his eyebrow and look at me with a giant question mark on his face. I was breathing so hard all I could get out was, ". . .man. . .behind me. . .followed me. . .had to get home." Apparently I wasn't interesting enough to keep him from his conversation. He turned around and continued talking to his friend. I retreated into the house, still breathing heavily, but oh so grateful to be home - safe.

Family Members

If you come from a large family you may be able to relate to this post. I was at a family gathering recently and found myself surrounded by people I didn't know, and yet they were my family. Feeling a sense of obligation to get to know them I embarked on a journey to meet and make a note of every single person I could. It went something like this:
This is your Great Aunt Nelma and her husband, this is is Judie and her husband, and this is Jeanette. This is Jeanette's daughter and her children and her son and his wife and their children. Those are your great uncles Tom, Richard and Melvin. That's Tom's wife June and their daughter Amanda. This is your cousin Ricky. This is your Aunt Dorothy and her sister (I can't remember her name!!!!). This is your cousin Jennifer and her three children Nathan, Levi, and Gillian. There's cousin Jessica and her husband Daniel and their child Colton. There's Uncle Rob and his wife and their two kids and their daughter's fiance. There's your Uncle Gary and his wife and her children, and oh, there is his first wife Irene. This is Aunt Virginia and Aunt Wilma and their children and grandchildren. There's Aunt Marie and her daughter and son. These are your second cousins and those are your third cousins. These are your cousins four times removed and that over there is their mother.
After a day of this I was feeling rather overwhelmed and wondered how in world I was ever to remember all these people, much less their names. I asked one of my uncles for a count of all the relatives living in that area. He smiled and said, "Oh, about three or four hundred in this town." What?!!!!!! Just then one of my aunts leaned over and said with a little giggle, "Don't worry, honey. I've been in this family 40 years and I still don't know who everyone is!" Well that's comforting!

Writing On the Bus

I'm sitting on the bus, on my way to class. My notebook is open and my pen is lazily scrawling across the page. It's a journal entry. Not the "Dear Diary" kind; one for class. It's supposed to be about my views of death. You know - what I think about it, how do I see death, what are my experiences - those kinds of things. I've actually had quite a few experiences with death, but I'm not really interested in writing this entry. I have a few sentences written but I am horribly bored with this assignment. The bus comes to a stop and I look up to see who is getting on. Perhaps one of the passengers will be a great diversion. Ah, here is the perfect person. A man stumbles onto the bus with four jumbo-size garbage bags. They are full of clothing and various objects. I start to giggle as I watch him trying to maneuver the bags so he can actually get on the bus. He finally squeezes past the door and flings himself and his bags onto the nearest seat. He is actually taking up three seats with his stuff. He's piddling around trying to find bus fare and then attempting to keep his bags from falling off the seat. All the while he is talking with the bus driver about how hard it is to get around the city and he wished there were easy methods of transportation. The bus driver is smiling and responding as best he can to the man's ramblings. He finally asks the man if perhaps it wouldn't be easier to get around if he didn't carry so much stuff with him. The man stops digging in his pockets for a minute to look at the driver - "So much stuff? This is just a few things I carry with me so they won't get stolen. The rest is back at home." The driver, looking a bit surprised but trying to be understanding asks the man where home is. The man replies that is back at the stop where the bus picked him up. He then goes on to describe his home at the bus stop ending with a description of the bench there that he as found to be the most comfortable one in town. Having finally found his money, he gets up to pay the fare and just as he does so the driver slams on his breaks to avoid missing the next stop. the man flies forward, his bags fall off the seat and spill open on the floor. Cursing and yelling the man picks himself up, pays the driver and returns to his seat to collect his things. By this point I am trying desperately to keep from bursting out laughing. This man is hilarious to watch. Then an idea hits me. I return my attention to my journal entry and begin to write about the happenings on the bus. Before I know it I have a whole page and a half about the man on the bus and his interactions with the bus driver. When I'm done I add a small note letting my teacher know I am sorry the entry does not fulfill the assignment but I was unavoidably distracted. A week later I get the assignment back with a note from the teachers: your distraction was most amusing to read!

Urban Bus Adventure: Vladimir

It was dusk one October evening and I was standing at a bus stop in a park waiting for my bus. I was about five minutes early and kept looking at my watch to see how much time I had left to wait for the bus to arrive. In between glances at the clock I was noticing the people around me. 5:40 -- a student with his pack pack standing about five feet behind me. 5:42 -- three transients (street people) gathered around a park table. 5:44 -- a woman jogging in the park. 5: 46 -- "Excuse me, excuse me. Please to tell me the time." I looked up. An elderly man was standing in front of me. He was wearing slacks and a polo shirt with a straw hat. His broken English and thick accent told me he wasn't American. "You want to know what time it is?" I asked. "Yes. Yes. Please. Thank you." He nodded while he spoke and then smiled. I gave him a half-smile and looked at my watch. "It's 5:47." "Thank you," he responded, and then, "Tell me, are you married?"
I looked at him a bit surprised. "No, no I'm not."
"Ah, that is too bad. Why you no married? In my country a girl like you would not be without a husband. Perhaps it is because you don't wish to be married?"
Feeling a bit uncomfortable at this point I tried to redirect him, "Oh, you're not from here. Where are you from?"
He informed me that he was from Russia, his name was Vladimir, and he was 85 years old. All this was verified by his producing a driver's license with said information printed on it. Seeing his age, I let me guard down a bit. Surely he was a harmless old man, just trying to be friendly. Boy was I wrong. The next thing out of his mouth was a question about my plans for the evening. When I informed him I was on my way to study for the evening he was a bit disappointed. He then proceeded to tell me that my evening would be better spent at his apartment drinking vodka with him. He was sure that I would be great company and he assured me that he could satisfy my desires for companionship, and even if I was a bit uncomfortable a little vodka would fix everything.
A bit horrified at his suggestions, I tried to let him know very gently that I wouldn't be accompanying him to his apartment and I was sure he could find someone else to go with him. He agreed that he could find someone else, as he had many women over there very often and they always left very happy, but why did he need to look for anyone else when he had me. I tried to remind him that he didn't have me and I wasn't interested. He ignored me and continued insisting that I go with him. I found myself willing the bus to arrive so I could find safe haven in it. To my horror, when the bus did arrive Vladimir got on with me and sat next to me. I tried to ignore him, but he insisted on talking to me and attempting to give me his apartment address.
Thankfully my stop was a short distance away and I only had to endure this "elderly gentleman" for a brief amount of time. As I pulled the bell to signal my stop I stood to get off the bus. That's when Vladimir informed the bus driver that he couldn't let me off because I was his date for the evening and I would be going with him to his apartment to drink vodka and have some fun. The bus driver looked at me like I was some sort of sick girl, as though he actually believed this guy! I shrugged my shoulders and told him I did indeed want to get off at this next stop. I wasn't sure what my Russia aggressor would do once that bus stopped but I was determined that I was getting off and away from him.
As the bus pulled to a stop I grabbed my backpack and hurriedly walked to the front of the bus. Vladimir began to protest that his beautiful evening was coming to an end with my exit. I didn't look behind me, I just kept pushing forward. As I stepped down the bus's steps another girl began to climb up. I stood on the pavement a moment and watched as she sat where I had been sitting. Vladimir instantly began talking to her. Phew! At least I was safe from him. Poor girl, though. She had no idea what she had sat down next to.

Just An Intro

Although I did not grow up in any huge American cities or spend an extreme amount of time living in what most would consider a "big city" environment, I did, nevertheless, grow up in an urban setting. By far the most interesting facet of that setting has been my experiences on the public buses. I have ridden the bus for almost 20 years now and the people, adventures, and rather interesting circumstances I have found myself in have been entertaining, frightening, and memorable to say the very least. So, I decided to share with you all what some of those have been. Hope you enjoy!
Also, I decided this would be a nice outlet for sharing other experiences or adventures I might have had. If you could call me anything it would have to be different. I would venture to say that I am not unique in my upbringing or my experiences, but I am most assuredly different. That can be a good thing and a bad thing, but it is me no matter what. I can promise you stories that will make you laugh, shake your head in wonder and perhaps even draw from you a tear or two, but whatever the case may be I hope they will at least offer you some diversion from your everyday norm.