Portage
On the 3A and the 3B, the Portage Avenue routes, the bus makes many stops. Some are planned; others occur when necessary, e.g. when there’s too much swearing. “Profanity is not acceptable,” says the driver into his microphone.
Grizzled men protest their innocence.
“My bad,” says an old lady. “I said fuck.”
Grizzled men protest their innocence.
“My bad,” says an old lady. “I said fuck.”
The bus starts up again; the bantering is resumed; the bus stops. “If you continue using that language,” says the driver, “I’ll throw you off the bus.” The crowd giggles. Camaraderie.
Two men sit down next to me. “Relax,” says one. “It’s OK to be seated next to a black man.” (On the bus I’m not unused to this sort of challenge.) I glare. They laugh. “Just messin’,” they say. We fist-bump.
“I don’t care if you make fun of me,” I tell them. They pretend not to hear.
“I don’t care if you make fun of me,” I tell them. They pretend not to hear.
“What are you reading?” they ask. I show them An Experiment in Love by Hilary Mantel, who’s twice won the Man Booker.
Solemnly, they nod. Respect.
Some drivers are less patient than others, and so I always make sure to thank them; this has put me into their good graces. Still, it’s not surprising that the driver who’s kindest to me is another puny white guy. When I disembark, I thank him, and he warmly says: “Take care.”
As I step out onto the pavement, I have a vision: a banquet hall (a warehouse) with many tables at which are seated the passengers and drivers. I hear my name called out: I’m summoned to the podium. I’ve been chosen as the MVP. The MVP of riding the bus.
As I step out onto the pavement, I have a vision: a banquet hall (a warehouse) with many tables at which are seated the passengers and drivers. I hear my name called out: I’m summoned to the podium. I’ve been chosen as the MVP. The MVP of riding the bus.