The Bus
The bus means something to me. I identify with it. Maybe because I’ve spent so much time on it watching the city as I go by. Never focusing on any one thing to long. The bus drives home how big New York City is. How diverse the people in it are. On the bus I get to see snippets of life. In the winter I can see the homeless shiver in the cold. When it rains I see the business men who would normally wait for a cab. In the summer I can hear the laughter of teenagers trying to beat the heat of the subway. Year round there are Hispanic and Asian nannies taking care of young white children. Other times I catch a whiff of perfume or shampoo from a woman passing me by. On bright days I feel the warmth of the sun through the windows. Sometimes I am assaulted by the unseemly acts of my fellow passengers. A young man cutting his nails a few feet away from me. An older woman eating left over spaghetti early in the morning. Or the time a man had a conversation with my hand. I see people with their noses in books and others with their thumbs on cell phones. I may see these things at other times but I only take note of them on the bus. Because when I’m on the bus I can’t escape from them and when I‘m on the bus I wouldn’t want to.
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