You And I, We Fit Together Like A Glove On Hand, That's Right

We all know how much I love public transportation, as it seems to weave in and out of my existence. My daily life is run by the number 4 bus. It controls when I go to work and when I get home. It decides whether I’m late or early or, God forbid, on time. It makes my decisions for me. When I drive, does it miss me? No, not at all. It has hundreds of others just like me to fill it’s seats and smudge it’s windows - wow, I guess Rick James was leaning on this window, or maybe Pat Riley. But that’s okay, I don’t touch the windows. I know better. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my car. I treat it like shit and it still loves me, most of the time anyways. The bus though. It’s the bus that I can always rely on. The bus is where I go when I need to reassure myself that I indeed am not a total failure. It’s the bus that starts and ends my Monday through Friday.

Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.

No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.

“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”

“Ganton Motherfucker!”

It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.

Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.

Ride or die you ask?

I’ll ride, thank you.