Most bus drivers, you don’t notice. They steer the ship, and it’s appreciated, but there’s usually nothing to be said about any particular driver unless they’re heavy on the brakes or get into an argument with a rider, etc.
A few drivers exude a positive attitude, greeting passengers cheerfully as they step aboard. Which is nuts, in the big city. They think it brightens people’s day, and maybe it does for most people, but I’m crotchety and it only gets on my nerves.
There was one kooky-happy driver a few days ago on the #99, though, so damned chipper he chipped past my perpetual layer of grumpiness and got me smiling.
The bus was waiting at the light at an intersection, and a voice from the front said, “That’s a nice look, with the yellow shorts and bright blue jacket.” He said this at a normal speaking volume, and I was only a few rows behind on a mostly empty bus, so it was almost like the driver had spoken directly to me.
And yup, limping across the street in front of the bus was a decrepit old homeless man wearing yellow shorts and a bright blue jacket. It was an eye-catching outfit, with floppy shoes and no hat in the rain. I said nothing, though.
The light changed, the bus advanced under it and along in traffic, and I became aware that the driver was talking to himself all the way. If someone was waiting at a bus stop, he’d say, “Someone’s waiting at the bus stop,” and then he’d pull the bus over.
“Now, that place has really good tacos,” he said as we rolled past an Aliberto Jr’s. I am not a taco man — the shells dig into the empty space where my teeth used to be — so I said nothing, but I do like Aliberto’s burritos.
A sheriff’s SUV passed us, sirens off, and the driver said, “Where you goin’, officer?” as if the cop could hear him.
Three riders came aboard at one stop, and the driver said, “Danke schoen” to each of them as they paid their fares. Then he started singing the Wayne Newton song.
Thankfully he interrupted the singing as we approached a Burger King, where the electric outdoor sign bragged, “Uffal nuggets.” He read it aloud, twice, then solved the riddle. “Ah, buffalo nuggets, with a few letters missing!”
I’d figured out uffal was buffalo a second or so before the driver announced it, and considered saying so, but no, man. I’m an introvert. I don’t talk much, and saying something might get me into a conversation with the driver. We were two miles from my house, and I never have two miles of conversation in me.
A youngish black man was spray-painting something on the back of a speed limit sign, and the driver said, “Make it pretty, man. I’ll watch for it on my return trip.”
A block later he said, “Hey, that’s a pretty good price.” Being a cheapskate, he had my attention, so I looked and saw what the driver had seen — a U-Haul truck in the next lane, with an ad brightly painted on its side: $19.95 per day.
“You know,” I said, “that’s been their special price every time I’ve rented a U-Haul in the past 25 years. How does that price never go up?”
“It’s like the dollar-fifty hot dogs at Costco,” the driver said. We talked off-and-on for the rest of my ride home, about his plans for Christmas and his daughter’s cough and where I’d been and where I was headed.
It was awful, but also it wasn’t. But also, it was awful.
When I stepped off the bus, I said “Thanks” to the driver, and I usually say thanks, but thanks is usually the only thing I say. Then I crossed the street, climbed the stairs, collapsed into my recliner, and said not another word to anyone until two days later.
11/25/2024
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