There’s a special freedom that comes with riding the bus. It’s not perfect, but then no freedom is absolute; everything requires certain trade-offs and sacrifices, as well as benefits. Driving has its advantages, like allowing me to set my own schedule, and while the distance to the parking garage is about the same as the distance to the bus stop the distance from the driveway to the door isn’t as far as I have to walk when I disembark from the bus. Still when I ride the bus I can read a book, or even listen to an interesting podcast, things I really can’t do while driving. I realize a podcast only occupies my ears and not my hands or my eyes, but sometimes I can get so engrossed in a story it’s hard to focus on anything else, or, especially if it’s a comedy podcast and I’m listening while walking to the bus, someone will say something that makes me laugh so hard I have to stop for a minute, even if it means potentially missing the next bus. Another one will be along eventually. And I can never predict when someone’s going to say something really funny. If I could I’d steal their line and use it here, and then later when I heard it on the podcast I’d say, “Hey, they stole my line,” and then I’d start wondering why they were on a podcast and I wasn’t, and that’s the sort of distraction that would be really bad if I were driving. Anyway the other day I stepped out of the building where I work and it was raining. I hadn’t noticed it was raining earlier, probably because my cubicle doesn’t have any windows, and I was distracted by the thought of getting home. And I had two options to consider. One option would be to catch the bus at a stop right across the street from my office, where there’s a covered bus shelter. That would mean taking the bus all the way downtown so I could catch my regular bus, which would add about half an hour to my commute, and although I wasn’t in a hurry and could use the time to read or catch up on podcasts I also had to wonder if the extra time was worth it. My other option was to go back up to my office and get an umbrella. It was only a light rain, but I’ve noticed that a light rain will get you just as soaked as a hard rain if you stay out in it long enough, and even if I did take the bus downtown it might still be raining when I got to my findal stop and I’d still have the walk home. So I went back to my office and got an umbrella and set out for my regular bus stop several blocks away. And then I got distracted because I was listening to a podcast while I walked and someone said something funny about octopuses, and while it wasn’t a line I’ve used in anything I’ve written it was a line I think I could have come up with if they’d invited me on, and if they had it would have been better for me not to have used that line before because it wouldn’t be as funny if people knew I was going to say it, but that’s another story. Anyway I managed to get to the street where I catch the bus just in time to see the bus on the other side of the street roll up to the stop and then roll away before I could cross over to it, but at least I had my umbrella so I could enjoy the freedom of not getting soaked while waiting for the next bus.
Have you ever made a wish on a star? Traditionally wishes are made on the first star to appear in the evening. Maybe that’s because the first visible star is the brightest and therefore able to shine through the sun’s lingering radiance, and was there long before you could see it, although the brightest stars aren’t necessarily the closest stars, and the more distant stars may not even be around anymore. Maybe stars are such lousy wish-granters because we’re wasting our wishes on the ghostly light of stars that burned out long ago. And can wishes move faster than the speed of light? If not and if you get lucky enough to make a wish on Proxima Centauri it’s going to be more than four years before your wish gets there and just as long before it gets back. I don’t know about anyone else but my priorities when I was seventeen were very different from when I was nine.
Maybe I’m overthinking this.
Sunday morning, after Daylight Savings Time ended and all the clocks fell back an hour, I got up early because my wife was going somewhere and I helped her load stuff into the car, take the dogs out, and whatever else needed to be done. I don’t remember exactly because my brain was still hanging out an hour back, but after she left and before I went back inside I looked to the south and there was a single star, bright enough to still be visible in the approaching dawn. And it was definitely a star, not a planet.
It was the star Alphard, the brightest star in Hydra, the constellation of the snake. The constellation is Greek, but the star’s name is Arabic for “the solitary one”, and it’s one of the stars on the Brazilian flag, representing the state of Mato Grosso do Sul, and it’s on that state’s flag.
I can’t say I knew all of that while I was standing out in the backyard. Some of it I had to look up, including the fact that Alphard is larger and brighter than Earth’s sun, although cooler, and about one hundred and seventy-seven light years away, which makes it a relatively close cosmic neighbor, although still farther than you’d want to go for help if you locked yourself out of your house.
What I did know, standing out there in my bathrobe, is that the weather has gotten colder as we’ve moved into November, as the Earth’s orbit has taken it to closer to the sun, making the northern hemisphere’s nights longer, and that got me thinking about time. The ways we measure time–hours, minutes, even days–are arbitrary. Some cultures begin days at sunup, others begin at sundown, and in either case the sky never goes from completely light to complete dark in one swell foop. Time itself, though, is more of a mystery. Ever since Einstein we’ve known time and space are one thing, part of a continuum, and that matter affects space a time–an affect we can see in a picture of an eclipse, the sun’s gravity bending the light of other stars around it. The greater an object’s mass the slower time moves around it, and the faster an object moves the greater its mass, which is a thought I’ve been turning over in my head since I was seventeen. Is movement simply a way of marking time or are time and movement fundamentally linked? And does this have anything to do with temperature? Movement generates heat, whether it’s the energy released by stars knocking hydrogen atoms into each other or heat produced by the movement of molecules, movement that only stops at absolute zero. If you could stop all time around you but keep moving, like in a science fiction story, would you freeze because all the matter around you was no longer generating heat?
I shivered in my bathrobe. I’d lost track of how long I’d been standing there in the backyard staring at a solitary star as it dimmed in the growing light of a much closer star, so I walked to the door and wished I hadn’t locked myself out of the house.
“If it is the unknown then how do we know about it? We don’t know.”
-Craig Ferguson
I’ve always had a fascination with the paranormal. When I was a kid I loved ghost stories even though they also terrified me and contributed to my fears of things under the bed and in the attic at the end of my closet. As an adult I’m a skeptic, but an open-minded one. I’m familiar with the saying that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, but I’m not sure what defines “extraordinary” in a world where sharks have been around longer than Saturn’s rings. What I’m getting at is that, if confronted with a genuine paranormal experience, I’d be willing to shift my definition of what’s normal. So far, though, I feel like I’ve never had anything close to a paranormal experience. Well, I’ve had experiences that were close, but never managed to be quite there.
One of my most memorable almost-encounters was during a sleepover at my friend John’s house and we started talking about The Bell Witch, a story of a poltergeist that tormented the Bell family in northern Tennessee in the early 19th century. One of the stories that’s sprung up about The Bell Witch is that if you go into a dark room with a mirror, close your eyes, and turn around three times while repeating “I hate The Bell Witch” when you open your eyes you’ll see her looking back at you. This is similar to the legend of Bloody Mary, although she’s supposed to show you your future . what exactly The Bell Witch looked like no one knows, but we all talked John into doing it, since he was the biggest skeptic and also it was his house. He went into the bathroom and turned out the light and we all crouched down at the door listening to John repeat “I hate The Bell Witch”. Then he came out and we all wanted to know if he’d seen anything.
“How could I?” he said. “It was dark in there.”
Before that there was the time I was playing a game with some friends at a picnic table in someone’s backyard. We had a Ouija board box on the table and a girl who lived in the neighborhood saw it and yelled that we were playing the Devil’s game. And she was right. Someone had put the Monopoly board in the wrong box and a game where the goal is to bankrupt your friends by building hotels on Ventnor Avenue has got to be inspired by Satan.
Perhaps my strangest experience, though, was at Camp Ozone. All the boys were hanging out in our cabin one night when the girls from the cabin next door came over and we all decided to sit around telling ghost stories which, I know, might sound more than a little paranormal, but we were eleven, so I guess the hormones hadn’t kicked in yet. I’m not sure where our counselors were—probably off doing something normal.
Then one girl, Angela, got one of the boys, Michael, to lie down in the floor and got the rest of us to sit in a circle around him.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going to tell the story of the day Michael died,” and Michael was either really easygoing or just completely unused to having any girl pay attention to him because he stayed right where he was. If anyone starts talking about my death, even hypothetically, I’m outta there. Angela explained that the story would put Michael into a trance, and then she started to talk about him riding his bicycle, which was pretty funny because she’d seen him swim so she must have known he wasn’t coordinated enough to ride a bicycle.
“And then he ran into a fire hydrant,” she went on, and we all looked at each other knowingly because we’d also seen Michael swim so this was completely believable.
“His body sailed up into the air.” Angela lowered her voice as she continued. “He turned as he fell and his head hit the pavement with a sickening crack. When the ambulance arrived he was pronounced dead at the scene. His body was zipped up in a bag and taken away. The funeral was held the next day. Michael’s body was placed in the ground and began to decay.” Angela was speaking in a whisper now as she repeated, “began to decay…began to decay…”
She leaned down and said, “Michael, can you hear me?”
Michael didn’t move. I think he’d fallen asleep.
“Now everyone,” Angela commanded, “put your hands under him and lift him up.”
And we did. Michael felt very light and his body was rigid, because he weighed about ninety pounds and there were eight of us around him, and if he slumped we would have dropped him, which is why the great mystery of it all to me is that I have no idea what any of that was supposed to prove.
And that concludes the 2019 Halloween Parade, although, as always, the final word goes to Lou Reed.
Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)-You’ve told the joke about the three bartenders, the Franciscan monk, and the cross-eyed turtle as part of a wedding toast. Twice.
Halloween (1978)-The barbershop quartet you were in broke up over creative differences.
Welcome To Long Pig Barbecue! We’re that little place off the beaten path, way up here where we look out for each other. That’s why we say the hills have eyes.
We stick to the old ways and treat all our customers like they’re one of us because there’s a little of you in all of us. It’s why we’re known as a place where people keep coming back up.
Come on in, sit down, and let us take care of you. At Long Pig Barbecue our motto is by the people, for the people, of the people.
And when it’s time for you to foot the bill don’t forget to tip your waiter or they might give you the finger.
Appetizers
All Ears
Crisp, crunchy, deep-fried goodness, a big plate of these treats is sure to satisfy the whole table.
Butter Fingers
We’re not stingy with the butter and these are slow-cooked so the meat falls right off the bone.
Entrees
Baby Back Ribs
Fresh and tender, but ask your server about the rack size. You might want to order a double.
All Hands
Popular with the kids! Served fried or grilled, and either way they’re finger-lickin’ good.
Well-armed
Baked to a nice crisp and also served in a special novelty dish to tickle your funny bone.
Tongue-tied
You won’t know what to say when this mouth-watering platter is placed in front of you.
Cold Shoulder
Great during the summer months you won’t be able to turn away from this dish.
Cold Feet
Another summer specialty that’s sure to keep you on your toes.
Bleeding Heart
Served up hot and rare and swimming in its own juices people get choked up over this dish.
Combo Meals (2-4 People)
Double Header
Two heads are better than one, and this big platter is bound to please all palates.
Foot in Mouth
One of our signature dishes for couples, people can’t stop talking about it.
Feast For The Eyes
When we say the eyes have it we mean you’ll love this specialty platter that you have to see to believe.
EPA Region 2, Directorial Meeting, October 12, 1984
Present:
EPA Administrator William Ruckelshaus
Regional Administrator John Bruno
Deputy Regional Administrator Richard Edlund
Chief of Staff Chuck Gaspar
Subject: Statement by Enforcement and Compliance Assurance Division Director Walter J. Peck
Gentlemen, I appreciate this opportunity to make a statement that will become part of the official record regarding the recent events in New York. I’m sorry they’ve brought a great deal of negative attention to the EPA. There are several misconceptions and misunderstandings regarding my handling of the situation, and I will do my best to clarify my role.
As you know from my own reports I, like many others, became aware of a number of strange occurrences in New York City in early June, occurrences which were described as “paranormal”. While we’re all familiar with ghost stories and New York, as I’ve learned, has more than its share of eccentrics, the number and nature of the occurrences was unusual. However none of them seemed to fall within the EPA’s purview. I, like many others, wrote off these stories as a passing fad.
That changed following the now infamous incident at the Sedgewick Hotel. This, as you know, was the first commercial venture by the group of paranormal investigators calling themselves “Ghostbusters”. As reported by the New York Post the havoc they wreaked in the hotel’s ballroom forced the last-minute cancellation of the Eastside Theater Guild’s annual “Midnight Buffet”. Even worse they nearly killed a maid with what appeared to be homemade flamethrowers that also left major burn marks along a wall of the thirteenth floor.
Still none of this seemed to be of concern to the EPA until I was contacted by a colleague at the Department of Consumer and Worker Protection about the unusual nature of the damage to the Sedgewick, including traces of a viscous substance and high levels of radiation.
I was further alarmed by a lengthy profile of the Ghostbusters in The Atlantic, reports of additional strange events on Larry King’s call-in show, and an issue of OMNI magazine which described the Ghostbusters’ “tools of the trade”. These included “unlicensed nuclear accelerators”.
Gentlemen, I don’t need to remind you that neither the EPA nor the Department of Energy license nuclear accelerators for personal use. With my background in physics I can also assure you that if such a device existed outside of science fiction it would be very difficult to manage. Even in a city the size of New York the mere testing of such nuclear accelerators would cause alarm, especially if the tests were unsuccessful.
The Ghostbusters’ electricity consumption, enough, for ten city blocks at their facility was cause for even further concern. This facility, a former firehouse, was never designed for such power storage, and their renovations were dangerously insufficient.
In spite of all this I decided to make my first visit to the Ghostbusters facility a casual, even friendly one. I tried several times to make an appointment but their secretary, a Ms. Janine Melnitz, was extremely overworked and asked that I simply come in. As an aside Ms. Melnitz and I are members of the same racquetball club, although she didn’t recognize me.
My concerns were also allayed somewhat when I learned that other Ghostbusters employees included Dr. Egon Spengler. Dr. Spengler and I were at MIT at the same time, although he was a few years ahead of me. He’s a brilliant polymath with degrees in physics and engineering. It’s unfortunate he turned his attention to studying the paranormal. His colleague Dr. Raymond Stantz is another brilliant, if eccentric, academic with a background in architecture and astronomy before he too turned his attention to studying the paranormal. Shortly before my first visit the Ghostbusters had also just hired Major Winston Zeddemore, formerly of the Air Force. It seems suspicious, by the way, even with high unemployment that a respected and high ranking military officer would stoop to working with such an organization.
Had I met with any of these men I believe the EPA’s concerns could have been resolved quietly. Unfortunately, as you know, I met with Dr. Peter Venkman. Dr. Venkman’s disheveled appearance and disorganized office did not, to put it mildly, inspire confidence.
Let me remind you that my first visit was casual. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions based on wild rumors and hearsay. Dr. Venkman, however, chided me for failing to say “please” when I asked to see the facilities then became belligerent when I informed him I could get a court order.
Following our meeting I spoke to Dean Yeager at Columbia University and learned Dr. Venkman’s position there had been terminated some months earlier as a result of unprofessional conduct. This included both questionable scholarship and reports of affairs with multiple students. Gentlemen, I believe Dr. Venkman is a sort of Svengali who exercises a strong influence over almost everyone he encounters. This influence resulted in the firing of Dr. Stantz, and the resignation of Dr. Spengler, presumably in protest. Dr. Venkman, I learned, acquired multiple high-risk loans using Dr. Stantz’s childhood home as collateral, in order to found the Ghostbusters as part of what I believe was an elaborate hoax or grift.
At this point I had good reason to believe Dr. Venkman was hiding something and that it was a matter for the EPA. When the public’s health is at risk because of potential hazardous waste chemicals whom are you going to contact?
I had no trouble getting a cease and desist all commerce order, seizure of premises and chattels, a ban on use of public utilities for unauthorized waste handlers, and a federal entry and inspection order from Judge Stephen Wexler, highly respected for his role in the prosecution and execution of the infamous Scoleri Brothers.
What happened next is, I admit, murky. What I still believe is that shutting down the Ghostbusters facility resulted in the release of toxic mind-altering substances that dissipated too quickly to be analyzed. I take full responsibility for my hasty actions, but I’m sure you can understand that I saw no other way to find out what Dr. Venkman was hiding. I’m sorry that, in the confusion that followed, a local accountant, Mr. Louis Tully, who’d earlier been arrested for public intoxication, disappeared into the crowd.
As you know I then attempted to plead my case to Mayor Lenny Clotch. Unfortunately he chose to hear from the Ghostbusters at the same time. This meeting was the most humiliating experience of my life. My masculinity was questioned and I was compared to some kind of rodent. Not only that Dr. Venkman was able to appeal to the mayor’s political ambitions. The mayor was able to get the assistance of the National Guard who blocked off several major streets around Central Park West and aided and abetted the Ghostbusters in what was clearly the biggest hoax in the history of New York. How they damaged a large section of street and sidewalk in front of a historic hotel, created a massive light show, convinced hundreds they were seeing an enormous Sta-Puft Marshmallow man, remains a mystery. Doctor Spengler’s engineering skills and Major Zeddemore’s expertise with munitions likely enabled much of what they were able to pull off. Somehow they even managed to target me with a massive spill of marshmallow fluff, nearly causing me serious injury.
The Ghostbusters, I am happy to say, have had their merchant licenses revoked and are now the subjects of several lawsuits. That, however, is a matter for the courts.
Gentlemen, as I said earlier, I take full responsibility for my hasty and ill-informed actions. Had I shown more restraint perhaps these events could have been avoided. I hereby resign my position as New York EPA Enforcement and Compliance Assurance Division Director.
I will instead be taking up a teaching and research position at Pacific Tech in Southern California, where the students, I understand, are doing some very exciting work with lasers. First, however, I plan to take some time to visit with family in Iowa.
Funny you should ask. I happen to be allergic to popcorn.
First of all we’d like to thank you for your understanding while participating in the emergency drill earlier this week. This is our first test of the emergency notification system or ENS, which is required annually, since we began managing the building seventeen months ago. We know there were some mistakes made and we’d like to address some of those now. We’d also like to offer assurance that we are reviewing the procedures and will be making adjustments based on both our own conclusions and feedback from you. We’ve already received a great deal of constructive feedback from you as well as from the police and fire departments and we really appreciate it.
First of all we’d like to defend the decision not to inform building employees that we would be conducting a test of the building’s ENS. We felt that it would be a more effective test if people were not given advance warning. This decision is currently under review. Going forward, however, it will always be our policy to notify the police and fire departments in advance that we’ll be conducting a test. On the bright side we found that if there had been a real emergency we can count on first responders to get here within minutes.
We also made several changes to our plans before conducting the test. For example it was suggested that someone from building management run down the hallway of each floor screaming unintelligibly just before or during the activation of the emergency notification system. We didn’t want to cause too much alarm by having the person scream something specific and we can all agree that this was the right decision. Abandoning this plan before we conducted the test, we can all agree, was also the right decision.
We apologize to employees who work on the 9th Floor that Kevin was not informed that we decided not to implement this part of the test.
Second, it is standard procedure for the elevators to shut down automatically when the ENS is activated. We apologize to those who were in the elevators at the time and will be making adjustments to make sure the elevators don’t stop between floors, and that the doors open.
Third, and speaking of doors, we are very glad to see that almost everyone used the stairwells and proceeded to the emergency exits at the ground floor, as instructed. We apologize for the fact that the emergency exits were locked. In our defense the building goes on automatic lockdown between 7:00PM and 7:00AM for security reasons.
The ENS was activated at 8:30AM, but after careful review we realized Kevin had failed to adjust the building clocks correctly, due to confusion over time zones and Daylight Savings Time. Since we’d received several complaints about the building not being open or going into lockdown at odd hours we should have noticed this sooner. We promise this will be fixed immediately even if we have to work overtime.
You can take some comfort in knowing that in the future all tests of the ENS will be conducted between 7:00AM and 7:00PM, so if the alarm goes off outside of those hours it’s probably a real emergency. Ha ha.
Finally there’s been a lot of confusion and misinformation about the wasps. We’d like to make it absolutely clearly that we were testing the ENS and that there was no emergency prior to that. The accidental release of the wasps at the same time was purely coincidental. Fun fact: the wasps are not native to this area but in Japan are known as “the yak-killer wasp”. We’ve consulted local naturalists who assure us the wasps will “probably” not survive the winter and are not an environmental threat unless a queen was also released. We’re checking on that, how they were brought into the country, and why Kevin had them at work.
As an added act of good faith and retribution on our parts we’ll be giving each floor a tin of butter, cheese, and caramel flavored popcorn, as well as sending around a collection of get well cards for those employees who sustained injuries during the test of the ENS but which, for legal reasons, we can’t currently acknowledge had anything to do with the test.
Please feel free to sign the cards and enjoy the popcorn which will be delivered to you by Kevin.
Thank you again for your understanding and acting appropriately during the test of the ENS.
I’ll never not be a cancer survivor, at least as long as I survive. What that means has changed and will continue to change as each day puts me a little farther from it, although, unlike objects in the rearview mirror, it will always appear closer than it is. Some days the only reminders are the scars I’ll always carry or the medications I have to take, or the doctor’s appointments I now have to make more regularly than I once did. Then there are reminders I don’t expect. Less than a week ago I went to the dentist for a routine check-up and cleaning, and the hygienist told me she was going to do a routine oral cancer screening.
“It’s a very simple procedure, very straightforward and non-invasive, just like a prostate exam,” she said.
“Well, I can tell you’ve never had a prostate exam if you think they’re non-invasive,” I replied, and we both laughed about that so much I didn’t even stop to think if I should let someone who couldn’t tell the difference put her fingers in my mouth.
This particular cancerversary is a significant one because September 22nd, 2019 will mark five years since I finished chemotherapy. Even though the doctors will say I didn’t get the real all-clear until the surgery I had three months later I was the one with cancer and I get to choose the date. There’s not a lot I could control while I was being ravaged by a cluster of runaway cells so I get to have some say over the things I can. That’s a lesson I’ve taken away from the cancer experience—and one of the lessons I still have to remind myself of on a regular basis.
Right back at ya.
Being a five-year cancer survivor is significant because, while your cancer may vary and doctors differ in their opinions, there is a broad consensus that most people who have been in remission this long are “cured”. Of course within twenty-four hours of my diagnosis on June 17th, 2014 I had doctors telling me that I was lucky and that my particular cancer had a good chance of being “cured”. I keep putting that word in quotes because another lesson I’ve taken away from the cancer experience is that there’s no such thing. My biggest mistake at the time was hearing the word “cured” and thinking it was going to be easy, that I didn’t have to be responsible, that it was all going to take care of itself.
Not that I really believed it was going to take care of itself. Even before the toxic cocktail of chemotherapy started dripping into my veins, even before the first surgery, even before a gaggle of doctors came to talk to me about my prognosis and options, my brain was stirring up a brew of its own. I say that by telling my wife over the phone rather than giving me the news in person my regular doctor deprived me of the chance to make a joke, but there’s more to it than that.
The day I was diagnosed with cancer the tech who performed the ultrasound spotted a blood clot in my leg, which is why, on our way home, my wife and I had to turn around and rush to the emergency room. Later, at nearly midnight, I was wheeled upstairs in my hospital bed for a second ultrasound and the news that there was no blood clot. I don’t blame anyone for the false positive but it did leave me feeling falsely positive. If the blood clot wasn’t there, I thought, maybe the cancer wasn’t either. It was hard to take cancer seriously when there was a possibility, however small, it wasn’t real, and, being terrified, it was even harder to accept that it was real, and that I needed to take it seriously. I didn’t take it seriously, not even when I was undergoing chemotherapy, not even when I started having side effects my wife shouldn’t have had to point out but that she did. And there’s another lesson from the cancer experience: nobody knows my body better than I do. I have to listen to what it’s telling me because most of the time I’m the only one who can hear it.
And did I mention that I’m easily distracted at the best of times? I might have had what’s known as “chemo-brain”, but who could tell? One day while I was getting chemo I went to the restroom and got lost. A nurse had to take me back to my room. That might still happen now. The infusion clinic I went to has a very confusing layout. That reminds me of a joke: two oncologists walk into a bar and one says…no, wait, never mind, it’s gone now.
Add to that mix of fear and denial a desire to not be a burden, although that probably feeds into the denial. There have only been a few times I’ve gone to a hospital emergency room seeking treatment–in college when I started having stomach cramps in the middle of the night and again when I had a pulled tendon in my foot, decades later when I had what turned out to be a kidney stone, and for that phantom blood clot, but I’m pretty sure the first thing I always said to the admitting nurse was, “Excuse me, I don’t want to bother you, but…” And that, like all the others, is a lesson I have to remind myself of: it’s okay to speak up. I think most people would agree that it’s better to go to a doctor and start treatment, or, even better, be told, “It’s nothing,” than assume it’s nothing or that whatever it is will clear up on its own. Even doctors can make mistakes, miss things, misdiagnose, but I’ll take that chance. There’s always a possibility I’ll be hit by a bus but I can at least lower my odds by looking before I cross the street.
And not everything is predictable. The dental hygienist I was briefly afraid might try to floss my colon and I talked about how cancer isn’t like, say, the measles, or chicken pox. There are vaccines that lower the odds of certain kinds of cancer but there’s no vaccine against cancer itself. The odds that I’ll get the same cancer I’ve already had are many decimals to the distaff side of zero, but having cancer once, or even multiple times, is not a prophylaxis against a repeat performance. Cancer’s ancient association with the crab is apt: it’s tenacious, good at hiding, and it can pop out anywhere. Cancer is unpredictable as a wild animal too. You don’t have to smoke to get lung cancer, spend a lot of time in the sun to get skin cancer, or link independent clauses to get colon cancer.
I wish I could say I’ve learned all these lessons, or that I already knew some of them, but there’s a big difference between knowing and applying what you know. Like Lewis Carroll’s Alice I give myself great advice; it’s following it that’s the problem, and cancer is no wonderland. None of this is easy for me, and probably not for most other people. Perspective also changes with time. I’m bound to learn new lessons, and what I think I know now may look different in future hindsight. I’ll take now, though, because now is five years from where I was.
Stickers have been going up on signs on bus stops around the city. Apparently the Number 2 route isn’t the only one going down, and that’s a sad thing. Since riding the bus for me is a convenience it’s easy for me to complain, but what about the people who depend on the bus to get around? Whenever I see a route being eliminated I remember the Number 13 route that I once accidentally got on, back when the buses didn’t have signs with their route number and bus drivers sometimes forgot what route they were on. The Number 13 went down Murphy Road, an side street that curves around through the Sylvan Park neighborhood. Along it you’ll find a vegan bakery, a bagel place, an organic grocery, and the McCabe golf course where, in high school, I made a dismal attempt at joining the golf team, but that’s another story.
I still wonder who rode the Number 13–that one day I accidentally got on the bus was packed–and how they had to change their schedules. Parts of the Number 13 overlap with another route, and getting from that other route to Murphy Road is walkable, for those who can walk a mile or more.
The Number 2 partly overlaps with the Number 7, which I rode as part of my plan to ride every one of Nashville’s bus routes–so far I’ve fallen short, and yet it still bothers me that there’s now at least one less route to ride. The Number 7 goes through the heart of Hillsboro Village, an area that gets so much traffic it could use more buses, not less. The Number 2 goes around a side street, past the entrance to the area’s YMCA. Hey, don’t people who ride the bus also go to the gym? If you look at the schedule you’ll see it’s kind of an odd route that starts running at 5:34 in the morning then stops at 9:28, and only starts up again at 2:15 in the afternoon and stops at 6:49, so it’s mainly aimed at people who work the day shift.
I hope the people who used to ride it can walk.
There’s a special freedom that comes with riding the bus. It’s not perfect, but then no freedom is absolute; everything requires certain trade-offs and sacrifices, as well as benefits. Driving has its advantages, like allowing me to set my own schedule, and while the distance to the parking garage is about the same as the distance to the bus stop the distance from the driveway to the door isn’t as far as I have to walk when I disembark from the bus. Still when I ride the bus I can read a book, or even listen to an interesting podcast, things I really can’t do while driving. I realize a podcast only occupies my ears and not my hands or my eyes, but sometimes I can get so engrossed in a story it’s hard to focus on anything else, or, especially if it’s a comedy podcast and I’m listening while walking to the bus, someone will say something that makes me laugh so hard I have to stop for a minute, even if it means potentially missing the next bus. Another one will be along eventually. And I can never predict when someone’s going to say something really funny. If I could I’d steal their line and use it here, and then later when I heard it on the podcast I’d say, “Hey, they stole my line,” and then I’d start wondering why they were on a podcast and I wasn’t, and that’s the sort of distraction that would be really bad if I were driving.
