Modern buses have wheelchair ramps, but unlike the ramp at a the post office or any building anywhere, bus ramps can’t simply sit there waiting for a wheelchair. Bus ramps need to fold up, out of the way.

On most buses, a buzzer sounds when the wheelchair ramp is being unfolded or refolded, to keep able-bodied but feeble-minded people from walking on the ramp while it’s moving. On older buses, there’s no buzzer, because hello, the ramp is visibly moving and audibly obvious. The mechanism is loud.

On some of the newer buses, they’ve gone beyond the buzzer, with a recorded announcement that warns, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed,” as the ramp begins unfolding. It’s an AI female voice, and it repeats those words three more times, while the ramp goes down.

It’s too loud, so there’s no escaping the announcement, either on the sidewalk or over the in-bus public address. Four loud, emotionless recitations of “Caution. The ramp is being deployed,” and then somebody in a wheelchair rolls on or off the bus, and the announcement repeats four times more as the ramp is being refolded into the floor.

This time was different. After the wheelchair passenger had come aboard, after the ramp had been refolded into the bus’s floor, as the driver emerged from behind his steering wheel to attach the safety chains that secure the wheelchair to floor, the voice continued saying, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

The driver muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, finished securing the passenger, then came back to her seat and pressed a button, numerous times, trying to shut up the voice. But the voice wouldn’t shut up. The ramp was no longer being deployed, but every five seconds the voice was still saying, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

After pushing twenty buttons or the same button twenty times, the driver lowered the wheelchair ramp again, this time for nobody, then raised it again, but the voice wouldn’t stop saying, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.” The driver tried lowering and raising the ramp, a third time, but still, even fake voice wouldn’t stop saying, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

Everything else seemed to be working, so the driver could’ve simply driven the bus, as it continued announcing, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.” I might’ve enjoyed that — block after block, mile after mile of “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

Instead she radioed for a tow, and took the bus out of service. “Everybody off the bus, please,” she said, and the bus replied, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

The driver unfastened the chains and lowered the ramp, letting the wheelchair passenger off, as the voice said over and over again, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed,” even after the ramp had been folded into the floor a fourth time.

Then twenty of us waited about twenty minutes for the next bus to arrive, and twelve times per minute, we heard “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.” Fifty or so times we’d heard it while we were on the bus, and another eighty or so times we heard it while waiting for the next bus. That’s a lot of “Caution. The ramp is being deployed.”

When the next bus came, we all stepped aboard, except the wheelchair passenger, who rolled aboard. The driver lowered the wheelchair ramp, which revealed this to be a bus that only buzzed its wheelchair warning, “buzzzz, buzzz, buzzz,” instead of saying, “Caution. The ramp is being deployed,” and that was a relief.

When we rolled away, it was half a block before the sound of “Caution. The ramp is being deployed,” faded into the distance.

All things considered, I prefer the buses that don’t talk.

♦ ♦ ♦

Riding the bus, I’m usually quiet, adrift in my thoughts or looking at the legs on some dame in the sideways seats.

Waiting for the bus, though, if there are other people waiting with me, I’m an actor, playing a character I call Slightly Peculiar. He talks nonsense to himself, or picks my nose, or sings a song intentionally off-key.

It’s a strategy, to keep panhandlers away, and prevent people from talking to me. Strangers might talk to Doug, but I prefer they don’t, and almost nobody talks to Slightly Peculiar.

So there I was, waiting at a busy bus stop with half a dozen other people, and giving them a brilliant performance of my Slightly Peculiar character.

A readerboard listed the next arrivals, but it’s often wrong — when it says a bus is coming in three minutes, it’ll more likely be six, and when it says six minutes the bus will arrive in three. At the moment, the sign said a bus was arriving now, but there was no bus in sight, so I said most of the above, and ended with, “The bus is here now, eh? Must be an invisible bus.” (Tip your waiter; I’ll be here all week…)

One of the other people waiting for the bus was a muscular black man with a face on the verge of angry, and to me he said, “Who the hell are you talking to?” If my character was Slightly Peculiar, his was Tough Guy Itching For A Fight.

I am not itching for a fight, but I stayed in character and said, “Myself,” pointing at my chest. “I talk to myself a lot. The sign says ‘now’, but the bus is nowhere near.”

The guy looked fierce for another several seconds, as I counted his muscles and tattoos (lots), but finally he rolled his eyes and looked away, and yessir, I was relieved.

Four minutes later the sign still said the bus was arriving ‘now’, but now there was a bus, so I happily announced, “Now is now!” and the tough black guy glowered at me again. We boarded, him at the front door, me at the back, and sat far, far apart.

One day I might misjudge what to say to which random psychotic at the bus stop, and that’ll be the day I die. This wasn’t that day, but I believe those few minutes at that bus stop were the most danger I’ve been in since intentionally walking in front of a moving #560 bus a few weeks ago.

Which might be a story worth telling, but it’s a long one and I’m not in the mood for a long story right now.

6/11/2026

Transit Takes

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All the cards and flowers have been taken down from the side of Sam’s newsbooth, and this morning a new man was inside, drinking RC Cola and fanning himself with the classifieds.

Less than two weeks after Sam died, he’s been replaced by some new guy, and all references to the old guy are gone.

Two weeks to be forgotten? Yeah, that seems about right. It’s longer than anyone will remember me.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Someone named Roberta called my voicemail on Tuesday, said she’d bought Pathetic Life and liked it, and my number is in the zine, so she left her number, and offered me noodles at Saigon Express in Berkeley.

I like a free meal even more than I hate people in general, so I’d called back and accepted the invitation. As always when people reach out like this, I warned her that I’m not the talkative type, and I might just slurp noodles and stare at the wall and have nothing to say. She laughed and said to be there at 6:30 on Friday night.

Is it a date, or only a meeting? I thought about asking her that question, but didn’t.

Today, after six hours of washing Judith’s dishes, sweeping Judith’s stairs, and playing with Judith’s dog, I said goodbye to Judith and the dog, and walked to the restaurant.

We’d agreed that the first to arrive would lean on a telephone pole, and all the nearby poles were unoccupied, so I leaned. A few minutes later, a young woman approached, and I hoped it was her, but remained leaning. “Are you Doug?” she asked, and I nodded.

“I have a cold,” she said and sneezed.

“Me too,” I replied, but mine is only a slightly plugged nose. Whatever she had involved serious coughs and sneezes.

“I would’ve backed out,” she said, “but from the zine I knew that you don’t check your messages often, and I didn’t want to be the girl who stood you up.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” I said and did and do, “but if you’re not up for it, the telephone pole will be here some other night.”

“We’re here,” she said, so inside we went.

Saigon Express was wonderful. It’s nice but not swanky, with good prices, very good food, and large portions. I love large portions, and ordered two spicy sandwiches that were twice the size I’d expected, plus a bowl of noodles that was dang fine, but so big I couldn’t finish it.

Roberta was open and affable, interesting despite frequent sniffles, coughs, and noseblows. She’s an anarchist and atheist like me, and either gay or bi — we both mentioned ex-girlfriends. Being my introverted self, I didn’t ask for clarification.

Mostly I didn’t have much to say. She’s pretty, which made me even quieter. She did 3/4 of the talking, but it wasn’t the kind of talking where I wished she’d shut the hell up.

After the 45 minutes or so that it takes me to even begin thawing for conversation, she said, “Sorry, I’m so groggy,” though I hadn’t noticed that particular symptom. “I’m not at my best,” she added, “with this cold and all.”

“Should you go home and get some rest?” I asked, mostly just to be polite, and hoping she’d say ‘No, not yet’.

But, “Yeah,” she said, so we started gathering our stuff. As I poured my leftover noodle soup into a doggie bowl, she offered to add her infected noodles, which was generous, but I said no, thanks.

We walked to the BART station, and all the way down to the platform, still with her doing most of the talking, but occasionally I had a sentence or three to say. Then her eastbound train came, so we shook hands and that was the evening.

She met the guy from the zine, and I met the lady who’d wanted to meet me. I liked the restaurant and liked the lady.

The conversation wasn’t boring for me, but it probably was for her. Wouldn’t say we hit it off splendidly, but she’s likable.

Here’s a thought that smacked me, though, as my westbound train dipped underwater for the long ride home: Even before calling Roberta back on Tuesday, I’d deleted her voice mail. What am I gonna do with old voicemails? I delete ’em by habit.

I’d written her number on a scrap of paper, but by now I have no idea where that paper is.

And it never occurred to me tonight to ask for her address, so I can’t write her a charming thank-you post card.

All of which means, it’s entirely up to Roberta whether we’ll ever or never see each other again.

OK, I’ve fed Mom her breakfast, and as and after she ate, we chatted and I sang with her. Her in-home physical therapist came, and I rooted for Mom during her once-weekly workout session. Now she’s napping, which gave me a chance to set up my laptop, bring out my notebook, settle into Mom’s wheelchair (the most comfortable seat in the house, and she doesn’t use it much), and write about her while she’s snoring.

♦ ♦ ♦

In her mid-90s, Mom was in generally good health until March, when she underwent two heart surgeries. The anesthesia left her mind muddied for months, memories missing, and she was suddenly unable to walk.

After a long hospitalization and rehab, she’s now been home for a month or so, improving. She’s 90% Mom again, but still weak and occasionally confused. I bus over and spend three or four hours daily with her, but my sister Katrina, who lives with Mom, is out of town, so I’m on extended Mom duty. I’m staying for three days, two nights.

To pass the time and help reconstruct her memories, I ask Mom lots of questions about whatever — her childhood and teenage years, meeting Dad, meeting me when I popped out from between her legs, etc.

Her answers are interesting, because Mom’s lived a life. The farm she was raised on had no electricity until she was 8, when an uncle wired the house. Which burst into flames a few years later, so maybe amateur electric wiring wasn’t the best idea. They had no plumbing until Mom was 12, when flush toilets and hot running water were added, also amateur but nothing caught fire. The outhouse Mom and her family had used pre-plumbing was still there when I was a kid in the 1960s, visiting Grandma at the farm. I peed and pooped in the outhouse, of course, cuz it was more fun than a boring old flush toilet.

Now, Grandma’s long gone. So’s the farm. So’s the outhouse, but we still have Mom, and I’m glad about that.

♦ ♦ ♦

Mom’s main hobbies are watching TV, reading the newspaper (on paper, delivered daily), and singing hymns. I sing along, and enjoy it despite being devoutly the opposite of religious. Raised on “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Everlasting Arms” and all the other hymns, I still remember the tunes and most of the words.

She has a few non-church songs in her repertoire, too — “Bill Grogan’s Goat,” “I Knew an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly,” etc. It was a big surprise, though, when Mom started singing “Barnacle Bill”…

Same tune, same opening lines as one of the most joyously vulgar songs ever! The next lyrics answer the young maiden’s question with, “It’s me and my crew and we all wanna screw, said Barnacle Balls the sailor.” The song goes on from there, always X-rated and not at all the kind of song my mom would sing, but she was singing it.

Mom’s version is different, though. The song I sang with beer buddies in my 20s is apparently a satire of the song Mom knows. In Mom’s song, the fair maiden’s boyfriend is Barnacle Bill, not Barnacle Balls, and he’s returned from a long voyage at sea to ask her to marry him. It’s sweet, and Mom still doesn’t understand why I chuckle whenever she starts singing it.

♦ ♦ ♦

In the midst of good times with Mom, there are occasional moments not so good. Like, she woke screaming from a bad dream, and I tried to reassure her. “It was only a dream,” etc.

“No,” she said, “I dreamed about abortion, and it’s still legal. It’s murder, and it’s everywhere!”

Mom hates abortion so much, she has nightmares about it. I think abortion should be celebrated with parties, and ought to be universally available, free of charge, as easy to obtain as water from a fountain or a toothpick from a restaurant. We’ve discussed this before, so I asked no further questions about Mom’s awful, awful dream.

♦ ♦ ♦

For many years, we didn’t get along. Mom loves asking pointedly personal questions, critiquing my weight, appearance, dental health, dating choices, etc, and reminding me that I’d gone missing for 13 to 22 years (the number varies, in Mom’s scoldings). “Your brother thought you were dead!” “I opened a missing persons report with the FBI!” “How could you vanish so long without any word to your loving mother?” Et cetera, for decades.

Mom was actually about 1/3 of the reason I moved away and left no forwarding address. It was a shitty thing to do, sure, but that was 35 years ago and I’ve said “Sorry” and don’t like repeating myself.

I’m back now, and over the past few years Mom has mellowed, so have I, and we’ve been getting along. But on Monday, as I was helping her up from a chair, she said to me, “You look retarded. Why do you always run your tongue over your lips?”

Why, hello — it’s pre-mellow, pre-surgery Mom — blunt, rude, casually insulting. It gets me riled and it’s easy to say the wrong thing, so I didn’t reply, but I realized, yup, I do have a habit of running my tongue under my bottom lip. Even figured out why.

Ever since I’ve been old enough to grow a beard, I always had one, but circa 2024, looking for work and finding nothing, I shaved it off. Thought being beardless might make me a more desirable hire. It didn’t help, though. Never found a job, and retired instead, but I enjoyed the novelty of a smooth face, so I’ve continued shaving.

The whiskers grow back quickest under my lower lip, and every few hours I catch myself running my tongue along the underside of my lower lip, enjoying the feel of the stubble. Mom’s helpful line, “You look retarded,” was my first awareness of this odd habit.

My second awareness of it came Tuesday morning, as I was again helping Mom from a chair and into her walker. She looked me in the eye, stuck out her tongue like I do, and rolled it under her lip, making a mocking face. This was an insult without words, and not subtle. Mom doesn’t do subtle. Again, I didn’t respond.

That afternoon, we sang a few hymns, talked about Mom’s childhood, and she told me how difficult I’d been in mine, as she was removing her her dentures. They’re a little uncomfortable, not a perfect fit, so when she’s not eating she sometimes removes her teeth.

You don’t think about it, but teeth (or dentures) help shape a person’s face. Without the fake teeth to support her jaw and cheeks, Mom’s expression droops, transforming her face from “nice old lady” to an almost comical frown. Even in a good mood, Mom without dentures looks like a caricature of the Wicked Witch of the West. And she knows it. She’s embarrassed when she sees photos of her toothless look.

After she’d removed her teeth, Mom asked me to bring a blanket, cuz she gets chills. I draped the blanket over her shoulders, saw she was looking at my face, and instantly knew that my tongue was out, licking my whiskers — and Mom was about to say something mean about it.

So I made Mom’s face back at her, exaggerating her toothless frown into the biggest, meanest, ugliest scowling grimace I could force onto my ugly mug. It was absolutely an insult without words. Not subtle.

Mom laughed. “OK,” she said, “I deserved that.” And then we sang “Barnacle Bill” again.

♦ ♦ ♦

Over my Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday with Mom, I prepped her meals and helped her up from chairs a few times, but she’s grown strong enough that she usually stands without assistance. I changed the sheets once after she’d wet her bed, and coached her through answering text messages, because she’d forgotten how that tech works.

The first night, Mom asked if I was there to take care of her, but I said no. “You take care of yourself. I’m just here to help with little things, if you need help.” And more and more, that’s the truth.

Really, I didn’t do much. We sang twenty hymns twenty times, talked about how we both despise Trump, and she talked about her sisters and her childhood, her dad who was dead before I was born, her mom who lasted past 100, and she told some funny stories about my brothers and sisters and me. She read her newspapers every morning, and I wrote a few pages for my blog, including this one.

Mostly I just hung out with Mom for three days, and mostly had a good time. Hope she did, too.

6/11/2026

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