You ask why I enjoy riding the bus. I’m going to tell you why. Inside a bus one can find all types of individuals: the poor, the rich, the middle class, the cultured, the uncultured, the loner, the book reader, the music lover, the demure, the outrageous, the rebel, the alcoholic, the dreamer, the loyal, the disloyal, the brave, the weak. Today I encounter a young man with an odd, impermanent tattoo on his left arm. He looks angry or maybe his natural features falsely depict anger on his face. He might even just be naturally careless and indifferent to what goes on around him; he is almost an older version of Holden Caulfield in Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Both as an observer and a writer, I have the power to classify these people into groups. I can categorize them in anyway I like. I can judge them based on physical appearance, give them names, or make up and change their stories. Like the woman who is sitting in front of me looks sad. Her daughter called her this morning, informing her of another miscarriage. The woman is therefore sad and feels sorry for the grandchild she has lost. Or the girl standing next to me with the white shirt is going to work. She doesn’t care too much about looking glam and fabulous, but she does have a knack for keeping her nails meticulously polished, painted and edged. Sadia used to tell me she makes up stories for people who ride the bus. She says that is her favorite thing to do. I don’t exactly follow her path, but I look for inspiration, something to write about later on. I look for people who look interesting, amusing, different and entertaining. I don’t always meet them but on a crowded bus of workers and those with no lives, one should never underestimate another’s potential for a possibly remarkable life story.