The man in front of me looks about 70. He has fitted himself between two women, and is resting his hand on a black umbrella, carefully reading a piece of paper. He is wearing a white bow tie, a hat, and a suit. I want to call him the umbrella man. Next to the umbrella man, is the saddest, most insecure and introverted woman. A loose scarf is wrapped around her head. She is wearing jeans and sneakers underneath a long dress. She shyly glances around, but keeps her head down most of the time. I notice no rings on her slender fingers so I know she doesn’t belong to anyone. I feel as though on this rainy day, where traffic is slow, the grounds are wet, and all the lights are red, everybody is trapped in misery. And I’m just like them. I’m another miserable rider of this bus, and I’m looking for a story. I have run out of stories just like I have run out of songs. Everything these days is a rerun. The bus rides, the songs in my head, my fantasies, the cigarette lady who I see for the second time; it’s as if I’m living the same day over and over again. But let me go back to the people in the bus. The bus driver is a woman in her mid 30s. She is also carrying a yellow umbrella with her and she doesn’t enjoy driving on wet roads. Her smile is the fading kind because she’s had a long day and unlike me, she has many destinations to stop at. For her, life is a series of bus stops, of people getting on and off the bus, of dollars and quarters that fill the coin machine, of people who look for seats closest to the doors. These people, the ones who like to sit close to the doors, don’t take risks; they want to be safe. They don’t want attention so they sit somewhere where they can easily get out, with no hassle. I’m one of these people. I sit right next to the door so I can watch each face that comes in, so I can watch the roads, but most importantly because I’m insecure. I’m afraid that if I sit away from the doors, I’ll never get off the bus or that I’ll miss my stop.
I know there are more stories to be told. I know that the bus is not just about the cigarette lady or the umbrella man or that shy, innocent woman with the scarf. But, I like to wander off to my own world and become the shy, innocent girl with the head phones. That’s simply who I am on this bus. I’m a girl who can easily pretend that the life she is living, right now, right here in this bus, is nothing more than a movie, a comedy of happy, lonely people.