Fifteen Minutes: Diary of a Bus
It idles comfortably across from the Holyoke Center, occupying the best seat in the Square. It slinks around St. Paul's Church onto Mt. Auburn Street, more graceful than any mere shuttle. It brakes irreverently in front of the Mother Church of Christian Science. It's the fastest way to get to Newbury Street from the Square. Running continuously between Harvard Square and Dudley Station from 4:37 a.m. until well after midnight, the #1 T Bus has a long hard day. If this bus could talk, what would it say? Now, an exlusive look....
Tuesday, 8:47 a.m.
Today, like every day, a woman and her toddler girl board me at the stop just past The Plough and the Stars. Today, like every day, all of the other passengers smile and coo as the pair finds a seat. The woman is pretty--fine-featured and petite; the daughter she carries mirrors her. I'm rolling along, enjoying this joyful maternal scene as much as the passengers, when they hit me: the shoes. The little girl wears pink suede Mary Janes with the red, green, yellow and purple images of ALL FOUR Teletubbies emblazoned on the toe. No! Their images run before my eyes... Every day there's a Teletubby something; last week it was a keychain-sized Tinky Winky; the week before, a larger-than-life Po; last month, a lunchbox with the four little demons holding hands, united in song. The little girl is obsessed, and I can't get away. You think I'm overreacting? Have you ever had a Teletubby in your belly?
Tuesday, 11:23 a.m.
Who is this man in the pocketed blue vest? Why does he have a camera? Why is he taking pictures from the window? Does that lady with all the bags not mind when he photographs her?
Tuesday, 2:45 p.m.
Two small, hyper girls and their harried guardian share a mid-cabin seat. Immediately behind them sits a well-dressed 20-something delicately consuming a pastry. The girls chant "We're going to New Jersey, we're going to New Jersey." Their words fall slightly out-of-sync. They turn and begin jumping on their seats. They point at pastry and scream "New Jersey! New Jersey!" The woman eating it concentrates hard on finishing. As we turn the corner onto Mt. Auburn Street, one of the girls gets distracted by the Lowell House bell tower. "Who do they keep there?" she asks. "A princess," replies her young companion. The sight of a pigeon interrupts their fairy-tale musings. "Pigeon poop! Pigeon poop!" they sing.
Thursday, 8:36 a.m.
My olfactory organs crinkle at the smell of blood and liquor. A man, aged roughly 40, stumbles onto me at the 02139 post office, across from Cambridge City Hall; portions of his face and body are scraped and oozing, and his clothes are torn. Slurring his words, the new passenger says he just fell off his bike and asks to be taken the additional stop to the heart ofCentral Square. As he lunges into the front seat, the other riders recoil; one finally puts out a hand to keep him from falling off his seat. Despite the driver's offering to call help or take him to a hospital, the injured man insists on Central Square, and the driver opens the door to let him off just before the crowded main stop. He lopes off down the sidewalk, and I wish I could help.
Thursday, 11:47 a.m.
"It's all about the gospel," a man says to the driver. "I go to the house, I sing in the choir."
"Mmmmhmmm," the driver replies.
Friday, 8:45 a.m.
The stops between Putnam Avenue and Central Square attract swarms of yuppies at this time of morning. Today, a stocky blonde in a tie and wire-rimmed glasses slickly swipes his floppy red bus pass with one hand. The other clasps a clear Starbucks cup containing some creamy, brown half-solid substance. He sits down in a row of others like him, facing the rear door. Conversation ensues, but this man takes more interest in ensuring that not a drop of latte falls on his black wool coat than in his seat-mates' chatter.
Friday, 10:15 p.m.
Could I be crammed any fuller? Friday night pickup at the Newbury Street stop is always rough, but tonight I can barely breathe. A female mass of passengers announce that they are from Northeastern University. They're headed to an Angry Salad concert at the Middle East. "What is Angry Salad?" a bystander asks. "Think Counting Crows meets Goo Goo Dolls," one replies. They turn their attention to a man wearing black tie and carrying grocery bags. They prod him, poke him and question him. I change lanes suddenly and the girls fall onto an entertwined high school couple.
Friday, 11:13 p.m.
Four teenish girls board at the Johnston Gate stop. They're drowning in A&F and Ann Taylor shopping bags. They sit in front and speak in faux-British accents. They talk of Boston and the Square, at a volume sufficient to drown out most of my other conversations. Finally, the driver surrenders; "What brings you to Boston?" he asks. The blonde begins to detail their vacation. The loudest of the four, a bandanna tied around her short dark curls, turns to a third and exclaims, "OOOOOH, YES! We have engaged the bus in conversation!" Hmph. Actually, I didn't say anything. But I should have known they'd be trouble; those who know board by Holyoke Gate.
Lisa J. Powell rides the #1 Bus almost daily for journal-peeking and to get to class at MIT.