Jack Gould: Untitled (passengers on crowded city bus) (c. 1950)

"I wonder if we'll follow through."

Elizabeth, the other car I primarily use as a pickup, even though it's a luxury Lexus, was in the shop but ready to get picked up. I decided that I would, for a change if for nothing else, hop TheBus down to the shop. I could have walked it in reasonably short order, but it was a drizzly morning, and after last week's traveling, I needed something different. The Muse said she could just drop me off, but where was the adventure in that? I invited her to ride TheBus with me instead, if only to see how some of her new constituents lived. She accepted.

The Muse and I are staunch bus veterans, each hopping busses through most of our first professional careers. For me, it was a lot easier to walk to the end of the block, wait five minutes, then ride in serene silence the few short minutes downtown. Rush hour was always somebody else's problem. For her, too, TheBus gave her time to collect her thoughts before and after work. She claims to have read The Bible while commuting. I usually read the latest Harpers.

This small city sports a fine bus system. Busses arrive frequently enough for convenience, and the rides are free to all. Sadly, they aren't used all that much. They're favored by those on low fixed incomes and students. Not many sharing The Muse and my demographic hop them, but I thought this might be different. We fast-walked down to the nearest arterial, echoing every bus rider's tradition. The worst-case scenario involves standing a half block from the stop when the bus passes, so no matter how much time the schedule insists remains before arrival, one always rushes to the stop. Once there, it's like tagging home. You're golden until your ride arrives. Then, the anxious fretting ensues, wondering what you'll do if the bus never comes.

These days, the bus's progress gets displayed on GoogleMaps®, and the data's not wrong. We still remained vigilant, eyes focused on where we expected the bus to appear. Even five minutes then can seem like an hour. TheBus arrives, and we're warmly welcomed. The Muse heads for the high seats in the back. I feel like I'm mounting a throne. I love riding like a monarch high above the road. I remember riding TheBus downtown to catch a matinee on a rainy day when I was about ten. The fare was a dime, and I felt as free as I ever felt riding by myself. When my daughter was in middle school, she and a friend rode all over Portland on buses for the sheer entertainment of it. She got everything possible out of that monthly pass.

The phone app advised us to stay on board when the bus stopped at the downtown transit center. The app made bus riding foolproof. We don't need to bother the driver or expose the depth of our ignorance. Our stop was duly announced before we arrived, and I nudged The Muse to pull the cord. "Stop Requested," the disembodied voice announced, and we departed, better for the experience.

If we're serious about global warming, we'll have to change our relationship with TheBus. It could be part of the solution, but if even free admission won't attract patrons, we're only fooling ourselves about being serious about solving the problem. I could dedicate a day a week, I suspect, to being car-free. I've survived worse. Once, when The Muse was in an accident that totaled our car, we decided to try going carless for a while. We lasted a month or so, riding buses to the grocery store and struggling home with our burdens. We rented a ZipCar® for the more substantial excursions, and a neighbor would take me along on beer runs, but we more than survived. Then, we lived within a few blocks of seven different bus lines. Now, we have access to two. I wonder if we'll follow through.

©2023 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #GoodNuff, #PureSchmaltz