My most frequent bus stop is the one right by my house, of course, but only one route stops there. Another route stops four blocks from home, and it’s a downhill walk, so that’s my second most frequent bus stop.

It’s next to a grade school, and standing and waiting for the bus, only a chain-link fence separates me from the playground, which is often full of screaming children. And I’ll complain about the kids in a bit, but first I want to complain about the cars.

Despite being clearly marked NO PARKING, BUS ZONE, if you come at the wrong time, parked cars fill the bus stop. The road is extra wide at the school, presumably so a second row of cars could park between the bus stop and the street, and there they were. A few more cars were parked in the street’s only northbound lane, which meant traffic had to wait until the oncoming lane was clear, then inch across the double yellow line.

28 cars were parked in the bus zone, the shoulder, and on the roadway. Even more drivers came, parked their cars in the street, and walked their little darlings into school. The count now was 31 illegally parked cars. The stupidity and entitlement was … ordinary.

When my bus came, I stepped through three rows of parked cars, mostly SUVs, and when the bus stopped, it blocked traffic north and south. I climbed aboard somewhat slower than I usually would, to savor the moment of making drivers wait, in both directions.

The only way it could’ve been better is if someone in a wheelchair had rolled up, waiting for the same bus. It takes about two minutes for the driver to lower, then raise the ramp, then secure the wheelchair inside, which means we could’ve blocked traffic in both directions for at least that long. Ah well, maybe some other day…

When I was a kid back in the 20th century, kids walked to school. These days, parents drive their little darlings, even to a school like this, in a quiet neighborhood with no busy arterials to cross.

And if they must be driven, why aren’t the kids dropped off, instead of being walked into the school with their mommies or daddies? These aren’t toddlers — even the kindergartners are fully capable of propelling themselves along a public sidewalk for half a block, and into a school’s front door.

I have no answer to any of these questions, except the observation applicable anywhere and everywhere: Most people are assholes.

♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, back at the same bus stop, I enjoyed a few minutes of quiet solitude until my bus would be there. But then came the very loud five-second rrrrrrrrrrrringing sound, unchanged since I was a boy, which freed hundreds of children from their classrooms for 15 minutes of ‘recess’.

What aggravation it must be to live within earshot of the school, hearing the rrrrrrrrrrrringing so many times, five days a week. And of course, all the screaming.

What seemed hundreds of boys and girls stampeded to the grass, and a few dozen came running to the fence, right beside the sidewalk, along the very tall chain-link fence that stood between them and me. Recess seems to be segregated by age; they all looked like 2nd- and 3rd-graders.

Most of the kids had their backs to me, but one of the girls looked over her shoulder, through the fence, and glared at me. I glared back, and she announced very loudly to her classmates, “Stay away from that man!”

“Yeah, stay away,” I said, just as loud or louder. “I’m big and mean.”

Visually, I am the scary stereotype — male, alone, unshaven, sloppily dressed, and there’s usually a grumpy look on my face. Good thing I’m repulsed by children, not attracted to them.

I was hoping for an argument with that pre-adolescent brat, but we were interrupted by an adult on the playground. Presumably a recess attendant, this woman didn’t care or hadn’t noticed the interchange between me and that 9-year-old. She started lecturing about sportsmanship, to all the children lined up along the fence.

“It’s soccer time,” she said, “and there will be no mean play, no teasing, and no trash talk. This is a game for fun, and if any of you make it not fun you’ll be in trouble. Is that understood?”

All the kids shouted yes, like they’d heard this spiel before, and I was mildly wowed. At my alma mater, Lord Of The Flies Elementary School, mean play, teasing, and trash talk was the rule, not against the rules. Maybe things are better now, in some small way?

But then the recess attendant pointed at two kids, and told them to select teammates. The ‘captains’ picked their friends in order of friendship, until only a few kids were left, and finally only one.

Through the chain-link fence, waiting for my bus, I watched the last-picked kid’s face redden with embarrassment. It’s a public insult, announcing that you’re the least liked and most unwanted.

Nothing’s changed since 60 years ago, when I was that kid. Preach about sportsmanship, but school will always be hell for the dweebs and the dorks and the different.

♦ ♦ ♦

Today, an errand to my bank brought yet again to that same bus stop, at the school. This time it was raining, Seattle’s famous gray cold and wet autumn weather, so I was holding an umbrella over my head.

Despite the rain, though, innumerable kids were running around the playground, being loud, boistrous, girlstrous. Being kids.

Sometimes at this bus stop I watch the children play, but most times I look away and try to tune out their yelling, because the noise of kids is almost as awful as kids. So I looked down the road, to see if my bus was coming.

Then came a sudden splash, as a purple rubber ball a bit bigger than a basketball landed in a puddle on the asphalt, not five feet from me. Impressive — the ball had come from over the fence, which is twenty feet tall specifically to prevent balls from escaping the playfield. But one of these kids had knocked it out of the park.

Being the only person at the bus stop, it seemed my civic responsibility to toss the ball back over the fence. Not much for bending these days, I lowered my umbrella and used it to scoop the ball up, and then walked back to the sidewalk.

Three kids were looking at me through the fence, waiting quietly for me to toss the ball up and over. I appreciated the ‘quietly’, but wasn’t sure I had the minimal athleticism to lob the ball over the fence, so I dropped my ‘brella and steadied my footing. Then I arced the big ball with a Kareen Abdul Jabbar hook shot, and it went up… and upper… and upper… and barely over the top of the fence, and down to the other side.

The same playground attendant as yesterday said, “Tell the nice man thank you.” Yesterday I was scary, but today it’s thank you?

“Thank you,” all three kids yelled, and I smiled and nodded and gave myself a mental round of applause. Then I picked up my umbrella, turned around and looked down the street again, for my bus. It was late, due any minute.

And then, ker plunk. Another jumbo rubber ball splattered in the street. This one was yellow.

I examined the fence, but found no gaps. No kid could accidentally kick a ball over that very tall fence twice in a row, so I suspected that one of the kids was messing with me.

My bus still wasn’t in sight, though, so again I scooped the ball into my umbrella, walked to the fence, put down the umbrella, and this time I tried a two-handed heave-ho. When it didn’t quite reach the top of the fence, I caught my own rebound, stepped back a yard or so, set myself steady, and shot the ball upward again. This time it went up and up and up and came down smack on the top of the fence, bounced and thought about it, then bounced over, and into a kid’s waiting hands. Hey, I was two-for-three.

“Thank you, mister,” a kid said, this time without any prodding from an adult.

“Sall write,” I said, but my feeling of good citizenship waned instantly, when I noticed that my umbrella was sagging in one corner. The second scoop had broken one of the very thin metallic supports that keep it taut. Son of a — well, that’s what I get for buying the cheapest umbrella.

Annoyed and suspicious, I turned to watch the crowd of children instead of watching for my bus. Just at that moment, a boy perhaps ten years old drop-kicked another big rubber ball right over the fence and into the street. It was the purple ball again, and it was no accident. It was on purpose.

I looked at that kid, and he looked at me, and we both knew it was me he’d been kicking, as much as the ball.

My bus was approaching, but if I’d hurried there would’ve been time enough to return the ball. I was done playing fetch, though, so I ignored it and stood at the bus stop sign.

My bus pulled over, and I got on and rode away, because bwa-ha-ha ya frickin’ juvenile delinquent, I’m the grownup and you’re ten years old and stuck in school for eight more years.

10/30/2024

itsdougholland.com
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →