Bus

I am pretty excited. I have just discovered a bus route that’ll cut my travel to work by about 15 minutes. My wife and I arrive at the bus stop full of expectation – she is with me to test the route. I smile at another couple who are already waiting. The girl smiles back.

The guy just nods. No smile.

He’s probably threatened by another male suddenly joining the bus queue. He knows that today’s maverick buses stop anywhere within a 10 metre range – he’ll lose face in front of his girlfriend if it stops near to us and we step on first. In other parts of the animal kingdom, pee markings would clarify where everyone is supposed to stand.

I nod back to show I understand.

He looks relieved.

Minutes pass of general glancing around. I read the nearby bus route information and discover something amazing. I prod my wife.

‘Listen…we are waiting for the number 40, but we can also get the number 65! They both go in the same direction!’

She stares at me with disbelief until I reveal the source of my information. She agrees with me that my discovery is, indeed, amazing.

We do more waiting. A few other people join the bus queue bringing with them more smiles, nods and worry. There is a chubby woman making her way down the other side of the street. She looks a bit like an Oompa Loompa. A young kid is trying to walk past her, but she is swinging her stumpy arms widely with each step – she has to do this to gather forward momentum. Years of walking experience must have shown her that, without the flailing arms, she grinds to an inevitable halt. The kid sees his chance and dashes past on the left side.

Everyone in the bus queue is watching, waiting. We are witnessing a small, but significant act of courage in the urban theatre. The kid whips his shoulder, matrix-style, to avoid a meaty Oompa Loompa hand. I hear a gasp behind me. It could have been nasty...but the kid is now strolling ahead, optimistic about his future.

There is no time for us to dwell on what we’ve just seen – the bus arrives.

People in the queue have noticed the bus is very full. Panic spreads and our previously harmonious queue becomes a medieval brawl. People who clearly arrived after us are pushing forward. The original guy must be wishing he’d done some peeing, but it’s too late now.

My wife uses her bag to fend off pushers and we’re on. All the seats are taken and I march down the gangway. Shortly, the gangway is pretty much filled. There is tension on the bus. The sitting people resent the standing people for leaning into their personal space; the standing people resent the sitting people for having seats. In French Revolutionary terms, the Standers are the revolutionary underclass and the Sitters are the bloated aristocracy.

I digress.

The bus closes its door and trundles along to the next stop. We pull up to a new bus queue – more panic and pushing. But there is a problem. The original Standers haven’t moved down the bus enough. I am the lead Stander, so I move down to create extra space. But the other Standers don’t follow! A man with a yellow hat is resolutely refusing to move.

The bus driver notices.

‘Will the man in the yellow hat please move down! People can’t get on the bus!’

Hatman has had enough of being oppressed by the two-tier class system of the bus. The Driver, after all, is also a Sitter. Ideas of bloody revolution, class equality and workers rights are probably whirling around Hatman’s beleaguered mind.

He has no option but to express this to the Driver.

He decides to say, ‘F**k you!’

Eloquent. Sitters are aghast – not so comfy in their seats now. Their leader has been challenged and the world has changed. Who does the Driver think he is? Perhaps we should all take turns doing the driving and have a rota-system for the seats. The Driver is just a human man, like the rest of us.

‘I’m not moving the bus until you move down the gangway,’ is the Driver’s teacher-like response.

Checkmate. The Driver didn’t get to the top by buckling in situations like this. Hatman toys with his iPhone and shuffles a few grumbling steps in my direction. I look at him, and pity his stupid hat and dreams.

The bus moves off.

The gangway action has distracted me, and I notice my wife is no longer nearby. I check around.

She is a Sitter.