The bus driver, a cheery man in a Metropolitan
Transit-issued sweater, is rotated through to the #17 on perhaps a quarterly
basis.A smiling, whimsical person, he
brings his whole personality to work.
In accordance with my belief that one does not simply trip
about the streets completely unaware, I am wearing only one earbud.
“Approaching Central, guvnah” he calls.
I blink, grinning, into the gray dawn of a February
morning in Minnesota, a single-digit affair swaddled in natural fibers and,
increasingly, a layer of protective fat, and realize that the bus driver has
just made an announcement in a Cockney accent.
I turn my iPod down significantly.
“Washington Avenue,” he sings.I look around the bus – is that a Carol
Channing impersonation?
But unlike the day that a small child and I were the only
witnesses to a full-grown elephant relieving itself outside of the Target
Center onto a snow bank many years ago, I am alone in my observation.
“Approaching Marquette,” the bus driver stage-whispers,
“and aiming for the Nicollet Mall.Next
stop, the 3, the 14, and let us never forget the 15,” he says darkly, “transfer
point.”I watch him via the rearview
mirror as he shudders in horror.
“Transfer point,” he intones.
A block or two later, and the bus comes to a complete
stop.The front doors open as the
commuting public, still struggling with varying degrees of disbelief regarding
the start of a new work week, mounts the steps, waves bus passes before the
card reader.
“Welcome,” the bus driver says – and is that a Boston
accent now?“Welcome to yuh mawnin’ commute.”