The Underwhelming Glories of a Bus Ride
By Mia Timlin
I’ve always had a strange affinity for public transportation. It never mattered what type, but I’m almost certain it came from reading too much “Harriet the Spy.” The bane of my existence growing up was not getting to ride the bus to school in the morning. I would sit in the back of my dad’s car, listening to NPR and watching my friends who went to the public school gather around the stop sign on the corner of the street. In my memory it was perpetually winter and they were always bundled up tightly in layers of coats and scarves and hats, with their breath coming out in thick white puffs. I was a dramatic kid, so I made it known well and often and loudly that my absence from this morning ritual was the end of the world, but to no avail. Instead I would stumble into class—usually at least ten minutes late—with the “Morning Edition” theme song in my head.
Looking back, I know I probably wasn’t missing anything too great. My fascination was destined to wear off the second I realized a certain degree of punctuality was required, so a bullet was probably dodged in that sense, but I sometimes think about how easily taken I was with the idea of getting on that bus every morning.
When I was looking for colleges, a caveat I scratched in mentally at the top of my list was that I wanted to be able to take the bus. I just don’t think I was designed to be a driver; it doesn’t agree with me. I get nervous and in turn confuse everyone—from the other drivers to pedestrians to the squirrels frozen in the middle of the road trying to decide if they have time to make it across or if turning back is the best option. In my case, taking the bus is really an act of public service.
Even with the excuse of protecting the common good, it would be a lie to say I don’t hold on to a bit of that enchantment that grabbed hold of me in grade school and wouldn’t let go. As stupid and cliché and laughable as it sounds, the person inside of me who has devoured stories her entire life can’t shake the feeling that each act of stepping onto a bus and choosing a seat is an opportunity for something to happen. Even if it’s just in your head.
And the people. There’s older women with their folding canvas shopping carts. College students staring straight ahead with AirPods in. Young 20-somethings in cheap dress clothes and steaming cups of coffee who are probably on their way to sit in a room with higher-ups who definitely didn’t spend their morning on the Google Maps app, trying to time a bus route down to the last critical minute. There’s well-meaning strangers who will eavesdrop on your conversations and interject with a related scene lifted from a past job or romantic relationship or roommate, that somehow seems to fit seamlessly into the jumbled puzzle in your head. The bus is honestly a dangerous place for someone like me, who can take anything and turn it around in my head until it’s been molded into some kind of movie-worthy magical coincidence. It’s the perfect fodder for an overactive imagination.
Imagination is something I’m terrified of losing. I rely too heavily on it to ever not have it. A friend and I recently bonded over our mutual love of the airport and the pretend situations you can live in for just a moment when you’re there. You’re on your way to interview for a huge career-altering promotion. You’re tearfully headed home after your French paramour dumped you. The world is ending and the key to saving it is in an undisclosed location only you can reach. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been bored because I can just slip off into another world where the problems are life and death yet somehow less troubling to think about than the finals I’m about to take.
The fall semester is coming to a close, and nearly everyone I’ve talked to is in an underlying and constant state of frenzy. There’s a lot to think about and even more to do, and the things we’ve been pushing off are finally creeping up to stake a claim in our minds. When it all gets too loud, go ride the bus. Slip into another world for a while—the other stuff will be there when you get back.
