One seat behind:
"She's there.
That fucking music.
Gone, then. Gone."
Whisper drops lower
than engine drone.
Sun affronts.
With each misheard word
itch on face gets worse.
I've latterly found that removing one's attention from one's immediate circumstances is the only way to endure the bus. Not easy when one has significant physical pain, but all the more necessary for that.
A few nights ago I was practising this personal bus discipline when there came an abrupt jolt. I assumed this to be merely another stroke symptom, of the so-what-else-is-new variety. Not until the lights had been switched off and the passengers herded out onto the night pavement was I made aware that a bus from another line had collided with ours.
The other driver had driven off.
We were asked to wait and assured a supervisor would be arriving, but no supervisor arrived. Nor did another bus. There on the grim pavement the assembled ejected passengers of the stricken bus communed with their handheld plastic security slabs, each enclosed in his or her own private semi-detached alienation bubble.
The task then became: mis-hear all their overheard words.
Somebody needs to have a quiet word behind the garage with whoever's pretending to run Oakland's bus service. As to the one driving off; we have a few rogue independents following the routes. You take your life in your hands jumping on them.
Writing in transit has become something of a talisman for me; even the worst is bearable when spelt out on the page.
I've latterly found that removing one's attention from one's immediate circumstances is the only way to endure the bus. Not easy when one has significant physical pain, but all the more necessary for that.
ReplyDeleteA few nights ago I was practising this personal bus discipline when there came an abrupt jolt. I assumed this to be merely another stroke symptom, of the so-what-else-is-new variety. Not until the lights had been switched off and the passengers herded out onto the night pavement was I made aware that a bus from another line had collided with ours.
The other driver had driven off.
We were asked to wait and assured a supervisor would be arriving, but no supervisor arrived. Nor did another bus. There on the grim pavement the assembled ejected passengers of the stricken bus communed with their handheld plastic security slabs, each enclosed in his or her own private semi-detached alienation bubble.
The task then became: mis-hear all their overheard words.
Somebody needs to have a quiet word behind the garage with whoever's pretending to run Oakland's bus service. As to the one driving off; we have a few rogue independents following the routes. You take your life in your hands jumping on them.
ReplyDeleteWriting in transit has become something of a talisman for me; even the worst is bearable when spelt out on the page.
Personal Bus Discipline. Now there's a Self-Help book that needs to be written.
ReplyDelete