Riding the #C bus, our driver was a middle-aged black woman with lovely cornrows, and she wouldn’t shut up. She gave us a play-by-play of driving the bus.
When a man at the next bus stop waved to make sure she saw him, she said, “Yup, I see you,” as she pulled the bus to the curb.
Southbound on California Avenue, she said, “We’re about to turn right on Fauntleroy Way,” but nobody had asked. She’s one of those people who think out loud, so I faded into myself and stopped really listening.
Vaguely I was aware that she was talking about the bus windows. You can open a vent at the top of any window, but she was announcing that you shouldn’t, “because it’s a hot day (95°) and the bus’s air conditioning is on, and you know, air conditioning works a whole lot better with the windows closed, or else you’re letting all the hot air from outside inside…”
She continued saying something every block or so, and it was amusing, but I wasn’t taking notes because I had important stuff to watch out the window — a pretty woman on the sidewalk, a cop harassing a homeless kid, a dog pooping directly in front of a big blue mailbox — and then I heard the driver say, “…And I like your tie-dyed jacket.”
There aren’t many tie-dyed jackets being worn in July. I looked around, and confirmed that I was wearing was the only tie-dye on the bus, which means she was talking to me.
“Uh, thank you,” I said.
“And is the a/c doing OK?” she asked, looking directly at me in the rear-view mirror. “You comfortable back there?”
“Well, the sun’s hitting me on this side of the bus, but I’m wearing my hoodie, all zipped up, and still perfectly comfortable, so yeah, the a/c is working fine.”
“That’s good to know, thanks,” she said, and I decided I liked her. She talks too much, but at least she’s nice about it, and says things that make sense. She wasn’t talking about butter, like my flatmate Dean always does.
Then she was quiet for a block, until someone she knew stepped onto the bus and sat toward the front, and the new rider started talking about the green beans she’d given the driver. They’re old pals, I reckon. The driver said she’d cooked the beans in oil and served them with onions and almonds, and dang, that sounded good.
When I stepped off the bus a mile later they were still talking, but about grandchildren, not about beans.
♦ ♦ ♦
Had another of those super-slow bus drivers yesterday, fearful of the gas pedal. We were perhaps reaching peak speeds of 12 miles per hour on Delridge Way, where the speed limit is 30.
It was like the story of the little train that could — “I think I can, I think I can…” except we weren’t going uphill, we were going downhill… very… slowly.
8/1/2022
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