A Series of Encounters on the Bus

A man sat next to me on the bus. It was evening, and I was reading The French Lieutenant’s Woman on the way home from work. The man’s large stature filled his seat, nudging against my side. I was at the window; he was at the aisle.

“That’s a fantastic book.” He pointed at The French Lieutenant’s Woman.

“It’s pretty good so far.”

“I read once that men cramp and crowd women on the bus. Ever since, I’ve tried to be more conscious of it. Are you okay? Do you have enough space?” I was a bit cramped but wanted to be polite, so I just said ‘you’re fine’ and kept reading. He continued to bring it up as we rode along, “Still doing ok?” Neither of us had moved a bit.

He asked so much that for a brief moment, I thought he might be coming on to me, but I think he was just being nice, and I appreciate that.

This morning, I got on the bus and sat next to a man. In Pennsylvania, I would have said this man was in his 60s, but somehow, everyone looks younger out here, so he was probably in his 70s. He was sitting at the window reading the newspaper. When I sat down next to him, he didn’t move or even look up. I peered over his shoulder at the paper—an image of a squatting drag queen showed under “theatre”. The man had both pages of the newspaper open and splayed before him; his legs were spread with his bag on the floor between them. I awkwardly leaned into the seat to stay sitting on it. He got off three stops later, beckoning me to stand so that he could leave.

On the way home, I was rushing. I don’t know why I’m always rushing, but as I neared the bottom of the escalator, I noticed that the man in front of me was blind, using a cane to feel for the step. I didn’t know what to do; what is the appropriate interaction?

As I stepped onto the escalator, we were nearly next to each other. He stepped to the right, and I began to walk up the escalator, as I usually do.

“Hello!” he said as I stood with my foot on the next step. I felt like I had been busted.

“Hi.” I replied.

“I am looking for the D bus line? At Pike.”

 “Of course, just come with me; I’m going exactly there!” We conversed for the entire 45 seconds escalator ride, though I mostly just said mmhmm because his thick accent was difficult to understand. We were going to the same place, and that was all that mattered.

At the top of the escalator, I walked a step ahead of him. He apologized every time he tapped my heel with his cane, but I just assured him, “That’s what I’m here for.” I was trying to clear the way, but he kept veering to the left or right. I thought it might be weird to guide him by his arm, but by the time we reached the corner, I did. We arrived just in time for the bus. As we stood in line, a polite young man grabbed the blind man by the arm and said, “You go ahead, sir,” and guided him up the step to the bus.

My pass wouldn’t work; as I tapped the box, it read “Error, try again” but three times it declined.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” said the bus driver, “Go ahead.” He was awfully chipper for 7am on a Tuesday.

At 2^nd and Broad, an older lady slowly made her way down the steps with her walker.

“Don’t miss me too much next week,” the bus driver said to her.
“Ok.”

“I’ll be in Barcelona on Friday.”

“Ok.”

As the next person got on the bus, he revealed their friendship: “She prays for me every day, so I like to treat her special.”

A few stops later, a man got on the bus and asked, “Are you on the regular schedule?”

“Sure; I don’t know what that means.”

“Heh, me either.”