Every Day...

New York, NY - Peter - Tuesday, June 18th, 2002 : goo

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Almost two years; every day, I ride the same bus across town, and every day the same people, looking as bland as they did the day before, accompany me. Blame it on the sleepy early-morning twilight or the realization that no one has had their coffee yet. Blame it on the fact that people just aren't that friendly in New York City, but none of us seem to ever notice each other, much less make eye contact or interact in even the most minute way. Consequently, no one seems interesting enough to side-track even the most vague passing moment of attention.

This morning, I resigned myself to look for hats on the bus. I rarely see people wearing hats here, the only exceptions being for the Easter Parade, yarmulkes, dressy church folk, uniforms and the occasional Giants or Knicks fan. All I spotted was a construction worker sporting a new FDNY hat; solidarity in the aftermath.

In my heightened state this morning, though, I took some time to notice, passively. I surveyed my surroundings, and fought the urge to dig into my bag for my usual defenses agains the routine, my book, my cd player. It seems that these are the toys that we commuters use most often to estrange ourselves from each other's notice.

Although I didn't see many hats, I did get a first look into the surface lives of these people, these working folks that I've ridden with over 200 times...

The FDNY-Hat Man caught my eye first, of course. He gets off at Sotheby's every day, and gets back on in the afternoon, frowning, brushing the renovation dust from his dry-wall spackled Carhartt pants, picking at the 'Local 40' sticker on his hard hat. He has a problem. Each day, I see three packs of Parliaments in his flannel pocket. Each afternoon, he tosses the last empty box and butt to the ground as the bus approaches. He wears his pants really low, probably because his gut has grown so large that he can't keep them up anymore. His belt has the word "Bobby" tooled into it, in a contrasting, delicately intricate script.

Lottery Lady is his counterpart. Her pauve-diamond name-necklace reads "Capricorn", and her firetruck-red dynasty-length tips scratch the surface of a quarter-inch stack of lottery cards; they're all high cards, the $5 games. She takes her lottery seriously; touching her crucifix, she scratches and frowns, sequentially dropping each card to the bus floor and brushing the scratchings from her oversized woolen sweater. She's the only one that's ever vocal. She says good morning to "Bobby" sometimes, and their four-word chit-chats are the only words spoken in my 20 minute commute, his "Hey there" reply seeming to echo all the way across Central Park. Well, that or someone shouting "Back Door, DAMMIT!" at the driver...

As if The Driver would neglect the rear door; he seems the epitome of the MTA's finest. Consequently, he's very proud of his "MTA - 20 Years of Safe Driving" medal. He often wears it on the outside of his winter coat. I've never seen such a genuine grin as the day I regarded his medal and nodded. He let me ride for free that day.

Captain Merengue is the one with the scruffy facial hair, the dirty one who dresses in worn, all-leather every day, and often smells like yesterday's sushi. I like to play a commuter-beat-matching game to amuse myself, where I try to swipe my Metrocard and get the meter to beep in rythm with the salsa y merengue blasting from his walkman for all to hear. Yesterday he hooked my interest when he removed said machine from his grimy, greasy pocket to adjust some setting and I was surprised to see that it was a rather fancy, shining, anodized mini-disc player. The element of surprise never fails to captivate, especially on the morning bus.

There's a sprinkling of researchers, educators and scientists that are bound for the same wing of the hospital that I am, also. Sometimes they see my hospital ID hanging from my bag and give me a knowing nod or zoned-out morning stare. There's also the trusty assortment of pastel-scrub-clad, white shoed nurses who's rainbowy numbers never vary- they're bound for the clinical wing, and arrive like clockwork. Occasionally, there are a number of hospital-bound orderlies, but their numbers dwindle, swell and ebb by the seasons, their cheap-cigarette pungency the only evidence remaining after they exit the bus.

The Executive is always in either gray, black or taupe Armani. If I had his wardrobe of delicate cashmere, I'd splurge for a cab, but he seems content to sit next to me alternating his morning reading between the placid pink pages of Financial Times, les histoires dans Le Parisien, or a glossy New Yorker. Hardly a day passes that I'm not somewhat choked by the still-evaporating astringency of his cologne. It smells of Versace.

Then, the rider that everyone loves to hate gets on. Crazy Wheelchair Man. Every Monday and Wednesday, he gets on at 5th Ave and 66th, and rides to Madison and 66th- one block. I'm amused by how the other riders generally sigh and frown when they see him flagging down the bus. They do this because it takes longer for him to get on the bus itself than it does for the bus to carry him his one block commute. Perhaps they frown because they worry he'll delay their commute, although I'm persuaded to think they're frowning because he has some rather eccentric ways. Rare is the day he's not pulling a flourescent orange toy pistol, aiming at fellow passengers and slowly mouthing "POW! Die Bitch!" or something to that effect, and savoring each syllable coming from his toothless mouth. He frequently carries a toy cell-phone, presses its buttons to make its lo-fi mary-had-a-little-lamb ringer sound, then picks it up and whispers vague but destabilizingly scatter-brained instructions into it, usually regarding microwaves or something to those ends. Now that I think about it, I haven't seen this fellow since September 11th. God only knows his circumstances.

The Go Getter is the obese but ever-smiling over-rouged porcine woman who presses in front of me each morning to get the first seat on the otherwise empty bus. I usually get off the train, arriving at my 72nd and B'way bus stop slightly early. I bide my time with my cup of coffee, waiting. It never fails to make me chuckle that the exact moment the bus turns in from West End Ave, she light-footedly darts from the shadows, strafes in front of me (often bumping- I have to be careful not to spill the coffee on her), and squeezes into the bus, a radiant "I got her FIRST!" smile cresting her face. I've begun to step aside lately; after all, what right have I to deprive her of such a simple pleasure?

I could go on and on. There are about ten other regular, quirky riders, not least among which is myself. But, I'll leave it at this as I have work to do and you have other worthy entries to read. But, if you get bored on your commute and the urge moves you, take some time to observe the people you ride the bus/train/whatever with. I've only recently opened my eyes to the infinite societies and sub-societies, social structures and tact systems that exist in my city, and they're one of the most intriguing things I've ever observed. Strange, bland, perverse and snooty at the same time, they radiate a matchless energy that never fails to captivate me. Well, at least until my stop arrives.

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