Adventures In Busing.

He was heavyset with a languid look but leaned forward in his seat. He spoke with a deep, low voice. I don’t remember how we got started talking, but I’m pretty sure he initiated the conversation since one of the first things he said was “You wouldn’t believe some bands I’ve worked with.”

“Try me,” I said.

He stared for a long time then said, “I won’t name names.” Then why did you even bring it up? I thought. He continued. “I’ll just say I used to tour with some boys who worked for Apple Records.”

The name Apple Records bounced around in my consciousness looking for something to connect to. If he’d said Konk Studios or dropped a name like David Watts that would have meant something to me, but I shrugged. I didn’t know Apple Records.

“Four mophead boys from Liverpool,” he said slowly.

Bingo. I knew, somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind that Apple Records was the label founded by The Beatles, but it wasn’t anywhere easily accessed. Hey, The Beatles are great, but I just don’t give them a lot of thought.

He got off a few stops before I did. When the doors closed the bus driver said, “He’s so full of shit his eyes are brown. He’s never been anywhere near The Beatles.” There’s a reason Nashville is called Music City. Within walking distance of where I work there are blocks and blocks of recording studios and music industry offices. I’ve never been in the industry myself but I’ve done temp jobs alongside people who worked as backup musicians for some of the biggest names in the industry. The odds here of actually being on a bus with either Paul McCartney or Ringo Starr are better than average. And yet I believed the bus driver. She knew without even looking that the guy had brown eyes.

The bus driver glared at me. And I thought he had good reason for glaring at me. He was driving a regular bus, and I’d been standing at an express bus stop.

An express bus will only stop at express bus stops. This is true whether you’re boarding or departing. If you’re riding an express bus you might have to figure on walking a little further than usual, because it won’t necessarily stop at the stop that’s closest to where you want to go. It will, however, probably get you there faster. Express buses also run, theoretically, every fifteen minutes, while regular buses run, theoretically, anywhere from every twenty-five minutes to twice a day. At least that’s the case where I live, which is a city where public transportation isn’t a high priority.

Regular buses, by the way, will stop anywhere. According to the rules you can catch a regular bus at any regular bus stop or express bus stop or at any intersection, although I’ve also seen people flag down buses from the middle of a block, and on a couple of occasions I’ve had to weave through cars stopped at a red light because the bus driver couldn’t make it to the lane closest to the curb.

So the bus driver on this particular day was glaring at me because he was behind schedule, the bus was so packed with people it was creaking, and I was standing at an express bus stop when the regular bus stop was just thirty feet away. I felt like he was thinking, “Couldn’t you just wait for the express?”

Bus stop placement is one of those other things I’ll just never figure out. In some areas they’re a quarter of a mile or more apart. In some areas they’re ten feet apart. Sometimes I’ll be at one stop and there’ll be someone else at the one just a few feet away. When that happens I hope the driver understands why I wanted to be upwind of that other guy, but that’s another story.

As I watched the driver I realized, too, that he hadn’t just been glaring at me. He glared at everybody. I thanked him when I was getting off and said, “Have a nice day.” He cheerfully said, “You too,” but he was still glaring. I think he just had that sort of face.

Hey, my ride’s here.

While I was waiting at the bus stop a cop car pulled up. Two cops got out, handcuffed the guy next to me, and left. I was in downtown Cleveland. Most people had asked me, “Why would you want to go to Cleveland?” when I told them where I was going. One friend said, “It’s been nice knowing you. You’re gonna get shot there.” Seeing a guy get arrested was as close as that prediction would come to coming true. As for why I was in Cleveland, my wife and I were there for a dog show. And I took advantage of the opportunity to go to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and the Cleveland Museum of Art. I also toured the Cleveland Botanical Garden, and didn’t let the fact that it was still under construction at the time bother me.

The bus driver was an older, white-haired woman with glasses. She mentioned her name was Lucille. I told her I was visiting from Nashville. We chatted a bit about baseball. The Indians weren’t doing well to her chagrin. I told her my grandfather had given me a baseball signed by Bob Feller. She was impressed that I even knew who Bob Feller was. She told me some things about Cleveland, and a couple of other passengers joined in the conversation. We were rollicking along as we rolled on through Parma.

Laughing I asked Lucille how long she’d been a bus driver. Her whole demeanor changed. “Why do you want to know?” she asked sharply.

Now everyone who reads this is probably rolling their eyes. I have a tendency to say insensitive things, and I had clearly offended her. I’m still not sure why. Did she think I was questioning her abilities? Was she really an international spy and did she think I might blow her cover? And it was a fair question. Why did I want to know? I could have been honest and said I sometimes write about things and thought that would be an interesting detail. And I also believed she loved being a bus driver because she enjoyed talking to people, and she knew Cleveland and the surrounding areas–Strongsville as where my hotel was–well. If I’d thought for  second that it was an inappropriate question I never would have asked.

She was silent for most of the rest of the trip. When we passed a restaurant that advertised paprikash Wednesdays she asked me if I’d ever tried it. I said no.

“You should.”

I still haven’t, but I appreciate the advice, and the ride, Ms. Lucille.

It doesn’t happen often, but when I’m the only passenger on the bus I like to pretend I’m riding in a really big but really cheap limousine. I’m returning from a bookstore where I had people laughing so hard they wet themselves and then when I was done there were so many lined up I sat signing copies of my book for seven straight hours. And the limo driver is a nice guy who’s new to the area so he doesn’t exactly know his way around and I’m afraid he’ll get lost if he has to go down all those side streets to my house. So I wait until we get sort of close and tell him, “Thanks, this is good enough.”

Reality bursts this little fantasy bubble when the driver looks at me funny for trying to give him a tip.

This is a trolley you can catch in the Ybor City neighborhood of Tampa, Florida.
If Raphael is your driver ask him about his dog.

See that note? Not the advertisement–it’s below that. Here’s a close-up.

It’s so small it’s almost unnoticeable, and when someone’s sitting there it’s invisible. When are the police supposed to see it? Strolling by on their beat, I guess. I don’t think it’s really there for the police, though, but rather for those who might be thinking about using the bench not to wait for a bus but simply for a rest.

I’m talking about homeless people. The police are supposed to prevent them from using the benches for just resting. The design helps. The benches are uncomfortable and the bars prevent anyone from lying down.

This seems both mean and unnecessary to me. Most bus benches are unused. Public transportation is also a community service. Homeless people may be considered a problem, a nuisance, a black mark on the city, but they are people and part of the community. And I’ve never encountered a homeless person preventing anyone else from using a bench, even at the crowded bus depots.

Sometimes it’s even nice to share a bench with someone. Once I sat down next to a guy who, as much as I don’t want to judge, I think was homeless. His hair and clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in a long time. He held a CD player and had on headphones. When I sat down he took off the headphones and told me he was listening to “the finest music of Styx.” I asked if that included Mr. Roboto and he laughed. Then he gave me directions to a place where I could buy some meth. Two blocks over and on the right. “You tell ’em you’re only gonna pay fifty dollars. They’ll ask for four hundred. If you agree to pay that they’ll know you’re a cop.”

It’s not advice I’m likely to use, but it’s interesting. When the bus drove up I offered to let him get on first. He said, “Naw, I’m gonna sit here for a while.” The doors opened and the bus driver yelled at him. “Hey man, I ain’t seen you in a while! You doin’ okay?” He replied, “Yeah, I been in jail for thirty days.” After that he deserved a place to sit.

So have I mentioned that I ride the bus? Not every day, but regularly. If you’re not a bus rider yourself there are some important rules to remember. Fortunately most buses have helpful signs to make them clear.

The signs are self-explanatory, but I’ve provided notes.

Rule 1: Chew with your mouth closed, use a cup with a lid, and give that chemo patient his hat back.

Rule 2: Smoking on the bus makes Hedorah The Smog Monster very angry.

Rule 3: It’s Nashville, Jake. If Clare Bowen wants to sit next to you and sing into a hair brush consider yourself lucky. At least it takes your mind off the cracked windows.

Remembering these rules will make your bus ride safer, more pleasant, and, most importantly, weird. Hey, my ride’s here!