There’s something about getting on a bus that’s like three-minute dating, only you really just have 30 seconds to pick a potential partner, so you gotta be fast. Those who ride the bus a lot hone this skill. I suggest riding the bus just to learn it…a skill handy in almost any situation: the ability to process information about a particular crowd in a limited time. It’s your own version of “profiling” and it can lead to interesting situations, not all of them bad.
When I was younger, I had to take the bus a lot. If I wanted to see a friend in a different city and I didn’t have a car, well, Greyhound was the only (expensive) option. Ride-sharing was another possibility, but my ride share experiences were less than favourable…being trapped in a car with someone who wants to talk about their ex-girlfriend for three hours, or someone who lights up a joint and then drives 95 instead of 65, all the while ranting about government conspiracies, or stops off at the gas station to inexplicably by fours bags of pigs ears….you get the picture. Better to bus it. At least the car won’t break down and you might find yourself trapped at a casino in the middle of nowhere. Of course, the bus has its own problems. I once had a gang member hit on me for about two hours (he chose me)… that was uncomfortable. An elderly woman from the South (my choice) told me the story of how she burned down her house, her husband inside…it was hard to tell if she was sad about it. Taking the bus can be like entering the Twilight ZOnE.
Now that most of us actually have a car, there aren’t many chances to ride long distances with strangers. I recently had the opportunity, while riding the shuttle from Phoenix to Tucson, and back again. My first ride was in a big cargo van, with supposedly 13 seats. For some stupid reason I got on last, thinking there’s be one seat left that was decent, but when I peered into the dark hole of faces there was only one seat I could see, between two guys that took up the middle seat with their guts. The thought of having to squish myself between two sweaty guts was not something I was going to do. Just. Not. Happening. I asked the bus driver…”How many seats are there?” thinking perhaps he could produce a magical one from the cargo door or perhaps just shunt me into the luggage rack below the van. A voice rang out from the back, “We’ve got room back here,” and I wedged myself into the tiny rectangle left in the very back row.
“Everyone knows the back of the bus is where the party is,” I ventured, thinking I was either going to have a good time back here or a miserable two hours. No profiling required, there was only one real seat. The guy introduced himself as “Bob” and we spent two hours talking about everything under the sun. At the end of the conversation I’d seen pictures of his three kids, learned he’d done cattle roping competitions in the area, and knew where the best Mexican restaurant was. I’d learned what the local wages were and where the Emu ranch was and what parts of town where rich and what parts weren’t. You can learn a lot from a local. I was surprised at his honesty and openness, but remembered that this is Arizona, there’s sun here, and sun = relaxed. I looked around the bus at one point in our conversation, and realized no one else was talking. One of the huge dudes had a night mask on and headphones in, transporting himself to anywhere else. Several people looked at their phones, others pretended to sleep. I might have nabbed the only seat in the bus with someone willing to forgo the phone to talk to someone they would never see again. There’s freedom in that, an authenticity you can’t get from someone trying to impress you. We’re just two poor sods jammed in the back of the bus, so, what’s your story, anyway?
Tuscon was lovely, and batteries recharged, I headed back on the next shuttle, which was truly a large affair, one of those imposing half-buses where all the people stare down at your head when they pass by on the freeway. This time I was getting on first, or close to it. I hesitated at the top steps, executing the 15-30 second scan like the Terminator. Lady to right wearing strange hat, looking at me funny, pass…dude on left possibly gang member pass… beady eyed man wearing all black, definitely interesting pass quickly…teenage boy plugged in to music pass… older dude with glasses and minor skin condition, yes. (As a person with various skin afflictions I feel he is possibly one of my itchy tribe) I sat down with a plonk and arranged myself, looking for my book. He had one in hand, so I wasn’t expecting conversation.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi there,” I said back.
Awkward pause.
“Where you from?” He asked, and from there, we were off and running, as he turned over his book. We started discussing the differences between Canada and the States, and then launched into various political avenues that went all the way back to the sixties and somehow, into Muhhamed Ali. We talked conspiracies, we talked about legalization of pot. I had somehow come full circle from my ride share days, and now I was that person. Perhaps age and information lends itself to possibility that nothing is what it seems, and as mere specks of dust, we should consider our best interests are not always at the heart of our governments…but I digress. I was thrilled to meet a like-minded guy.
“Do you ever read the Onion?” he asked, and I laughed.
“It’s America’s Finest News Source,” I said, “Of course I do.”
At the end of two hours I felt I could have spoken to him for 12 more. I felt bereft, like we should be pen pals, like we should know each other somehow, again. But, it was time for me to get off the bus…
“Rob,” he extended his hand. “Erin,” I extended mine.
I felt blessed with this small moment into another person’s life, that he too let me into his world, into his ideas. The company of strangers can leave you inspired to be more authentic, true, and willing to engage…if you chose wisely. My advice? Forget what your mother told you. Talk to strangers. Go for the folks with true eyes.
If you’re lucky, you’ll get a Bob or a Rob.