I have ridden the bus almost every weekday for the past four years.
I first moved out the fall of 2006 into a house 7 blocks from High Street. I would get up early, pack my bookbag for the average 15-hour absence, and plod downhill on Arcadia, past the football field and the high school, and the park area at the corner where the homeless people and drug users would sit on slatted benches and catcall at me. My cheerful rebuffs, and the nearby busy street, were always defense enough.
Rain, snow, and high humidity I would cross the street when the sign flashed into a little white man. Sometimes I'd jaywalk, bag thumping from my sprint, if the bus came rolling up too soon. I've always lived on the east side of High Street, and the northbound bus for my morning commute has, obviously, always been on the west side. There've been days I've watched my bus pass by less than 20 feet away just because I was on the wrong side of the street. Infuriating.
In 2006, I would drop six quarters in the change tower and shuffle to the back for my 30 minute ride. On warm days, if I wasn't by an emergency exit window, I'd palm the handle to bring in the sunshine and the breeze. Sometimes my seatmates were bearers of extreme BO, but not often.
I'd pull at the cracked yellow plastic of the stop cord after passing the Greek Orthodox Church, and the bus would lurch to a halt at the bridge before Nationwide Boulevard. There began the half-mile trek east along downtown's border toward Columbus State. I'd pass the Crowne Plaza Hotel and the line of blue taxis, the Somalian drivers on their cell phones or drawing on cigarettes as their vehicles idled. I passed by a restaurant in a narrow brick building - I always wanted to eat there but never did - and an outlying parking lot of the college. After one more major intersection, I was on campus. And then when I got out of class the hour-long process was reversed.
Over the past four years, I've worked at two different bus-accessible jobs and lived in 5 different bus-accessible homes. I've sweated in the summer when the bodies packed in, and I've shivered in the winter hunkered down on the metal bus shelter bench. I've never ridden any bus outside of the #2. And I've seen the fattest, weirdest, youngest, most chivalrous people during my many accumulated hours of commuting. They have brown eyes and wear straw hats and read romance novels and have dark moles on their cheeks. They sit next to me and tell me how their sister is cheating them, or bless me for reading my Bible. They give up their seats for the old women and listen to the stories the crazy men tell and yell to the driver if they see someone running late to the stop.
I have an internship this quarter, the first place I've needed to get to that I haven't been able to get to by bus. In our silver Taurus I battle through morning rush hour, dodging down side streets and speeding through yellow lights and swearing at the ones that turn red before I can run them.
And I think of riding down High Street, my attention between the open book in my lap and the blonde toddler making eyes at me from his mother's left shoulder.
I first moved out the fall of 2006 into a house 7 blocks from High Street. I would get up early, pack my bookbag for the average 15-hour absence, and plod downhill on Arcadia, past the football field and the high school, and the park area at the corner where the homeless people and drug users would sit on slatted benches and catcall at me. My cheerful rebuffs, and the nearby busy street, were always defense enough.
Rain, snow, and high humidity I would cross the street when the sign flashed into a little white man. Sometimes I'd jaywalk, bag thumping from my sprint, if the bus came rolling up too soon. I've always lived on the east side of High Street, and the northbound bus for my morning commute has, obviously, always been on the west side. There've been days I've watched my bus pass by less than 20 feet away just because I was on the wrong side of the street. Infuriating.
In 2006, I would drop six quarters in the change tower and shuffle to the back for my 30 minute ride. On warm days, if I wasn't by an emergency exit window, I'd palm the handle to bring in the sunshine and the breeze. Sometimes my seatmates were bearers of extreme BO, but not often.
I'd pull at the cracked yellow plastic of the stop cord after passing the Greek Orthodox Church, and the bus would lurch to a halt at the bridge before Nationwide Boulevard. There began the half-mile trek east along downtown's border toward Columbus State. I'd pass the Crowne Plaza Hotel and the line of blue taxis, the Somalian drivers on their cell phones or drawing on cigarettes as their vehicles idled. I passed by a restaurant in a narrow brick building - I always wanted to eat there but never did - and an outlying parking lot of the college. After one more major intersection, I was on campus. And then when I got out of class the hour-long process was reversed.
Over the past four years, I've worked at two different bus-accessible jobs and lived in 5 different bus-accessible homes. I've sweated in the summer when the bodies packed in, and I've shivered in the winter hunkered down on the metal bus shelter bench. I've never ridden any bus outside of the #2. And I've seen the fattest, weirdest, youngest, most chivalrous people during my many accumulated hours of commuting. They have brown eyes and wear straw hats and read romance novels and have dark moles on their cheeks. They sit next to me and tell me how their sister is cheating them, or bless me for reading my Bible. They give up their seats for the old women and listen to the stories the crazy men tell and yell to the driver if they see someone running late to the stop.
I have an internship this quarter, the first place I've needed to get to that I haven't been able to get to by bus. In our silver Taurus I battle through morning rush hour, dodging down side streets and speeding through yellow lights and swearing at the ones that turn red before I can run them.
And I think of riding down High Street, my attention between the open book in my lap and the blonde toddler making eyes at me from his mother's left shoulder.
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