Sunday on the 3B Line - Metro 8
“I used to make good money!” he said. “I used to make good money!” a FIVE-MINUTE ride on the local bus. Jump on.
A year ago I sold my car in favor of letting someone else do the driving. I now have the dubious pleasure of taking the Metro Bus. One benefit, of course, is that I’ve found a lot to write about out on the 3B line. Come take a five minute ride with me; you’ll see what I mean. ( Links to other scary, strange, or hilarious bus rides are at the bottom.)
There are only four people on the 3B bus as I step on this morning. I no sooner put my ticket in the slot, when I am addressed by a scruffy-looking old guy seated in the front section — in the special sideways seats that are reserved for the elderly or the unstable.
He looks me in the eye and he says, “You can sit there.” He points at the seat diagonally across from him. I don’t know who he is, but he has evidently taken on the arduous task of assigning seats this morning. He looks harmless, so I simply say, “Well…okay … thank you very much,” and sit in the seat that he’s chosen for me.
This man tries to engage me in a long conversation, but I can barely make out his words over the roar of the bus. He shouts, “I used to make good money. I used to make good money.” I smile and say, “Is that right?” Then again, he asserts, “I used to make good money.” He repeats his happy financial history at least nine times in the next few minutes. It’s on his mind. He wants me to know that he’s not who he once was. He continues this mostly unintelligible monologue until he gets off at the Shangri-la Trailer Park.
This must be Senior Sunday on the Metro. Looks like all the young folks are sleeping in. An elderly woman in a brown quilted coat, somewhat the worse for wear ( the woman and the coat ), wrangles her shopping cart up the steps. She has a ragged white scarf knotted artistically around her neck. I see as she sits down, that she’s wearing Converse high-top shoes. Large holes have been scissored out of the canvas to accommodate her bunions. How nice it would be if all the pains of the elderly could be resolved so easily.
An older Latina walks by me. She’s dressed all in black, except that her socks are bright pink and match her pink-striped shopping bag. She hands me a religious tract as she passes. ( Everyone has a story. ) What the heck, I’ll take her leaflet and thank her, if it gives her a little happiness. I ponder over the image of Jesus, who has a very Nordic look, blond hair, blue eyes. I am skeptical.
One man is sitting alone a little farther down the aisle, looking for all the world like an aging Al Pacino. His ball-cap is on backwards. He leans his head back, eyes closed. His smile is wistful, as if he’s remembering all the beautiful women he’s known and loved throughout his lifetime.
I have a vivid imagination, so it is easy to picture him as he used to be, handsome, charming. He was a real lady’s man, maybe he was a Teamster, working as a foreman in the local frozen food plant. He flirted with all the girls working the conveyor lines. He was a frequent winner at blackjack, and went to Vegas several times a year. Since his wife left him, he puts Hungry Man dinners in the microwave every evening and watches sports on TV. Maybe he’s a member of the Marconi Club and goes bowling with his Italian buddies on Tuesday afternoons.
Bus rides can be slow and tedious, so I usually spend the time inventing lives for the passengers. Who were they? Who are they now? How do they spend their days? What do they wish for? They’re never just anonymous bus riders to me.
I wonder what they see when they look at me? I sit here in the front sideways seats — because I am old and unstable. Tweaked over with arthritis, I hang onto my walker, gray hair, double triple chin, orthopedic oxfords, baggy jeans, plaid flannel shirt. Just another old lady riding the bus. To see me now, could anyone even imagine what I have done in my life? My beautiful son, my college degrees, my long professional career, my world travels, the books I have published? Of course not. My past life - and the lives of all the old ones here on this bus, are invisible now.
It is a great reminder to me to look deeper, to remember that all the seniors that surround me were once vital, and actively engaged in society. We all had challenging lives full of successes and failures, all with loving or dysfunctional families. Before we became fragile, mentally slower, physically diminished, we were all somebody. From the seat assigner, to the religious witness, from the lady with the bad feet, to the good looking Don Juan, we all still have something important to share and deserve to be seen and acknowledged.
Thanks for riding with me on the Santa Cruz Metro today. Here are a few other short rides, if you want a transfer. Some rides are hilarious,, some are scary, some are poignant and all are free today and every day.
Mayhem on Six Wheels - Metro 1 Characters in Search of a Story -Metro 2
Xanax Monday - Metro 3 Summer Solstice Party Bus - Metro 4
Day For Night - Metro 5 Use a Radio, Go to Jail - Metro 6
*Photo is actually of Al Pacino from the internet. I do not photograph people on the bus.
You are STILL somebody, Sharron! Your stories of your travels abroad, or on the Sunday 3B Line-Metro 8. Your imagination unfolds in heartfelt fiction, and spooky 50-word stories. And the woman I know you to be. Your past was full of adventures, and your present is full of love for the family...your son, your in-laws, Ben and I, our children, grandchildren..and the Mama who started it all. We love you back, Sister.
You’re so talented , Sharron! I love your bus ride stories. Thank you so much.