22 Sep The Late 28

When I was a kid, the promise of a bus ride was a treat that conjured unbounded glee and childish excitement. Now, the only thing that excites me about a San Franciscan bus ride is the prospect of getting off. The wait for the bus is itself pretty awkward. If you’re not trying to avoid the class nuisance; recognized as the one who insists on starting intellectual battles with the teacher, you’re instead stood next to someone whom you often have pleasant conversations with but are 6 weeks too far in to admit to not knowing their name. Incidentally, my favorite technique for salvaging this latter acquaintance (we’ve all been there), is asking them: ‘So what’s your FULL name? I’ll add you’. If they only give their last name my plan will have failed, leaving first name terms and my Facebook request forever pending.

The above problems transcend to the bus journey itself, where further issues arise. We all know that once on the bus, seats are gold dust. So why then is it that I feel instant guilt when I sit down? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll scan around for the inevitable quivering pensioner who needs a seat to save being pulled to the floor by their 10 Trader Joe’s bags; but in the case that they’ve already been granted the luxury, I’ll take it myself. By the way, I use the term ‘luxury’ in the loosest sense possible: unless of course you’re inclined to enjoy having a 50 year olds crotch in your direct eye-line for an unstable 23 minute trip. I will illustrate the unavoidable guilt in taking a spare seat on a busy bus with my experience today.

As I boarded the 28 this morning, there was a vacated seat right in front of me; but the rising unspoken tension between the surrounding standers was so strong that I withdrew as a contender and reached up for the handle bar. This unbearable muted battle for the beckoning empty seat persisted for the following 5 stops, and with the violent swaying and bumping going on between the standers, I was bating my breath for someone to be literally pushed head first into it. That is, until something out of the ordinary happened. At one stop, there was a girl in a wheelchair wanting to get on. ‘Everybody needs to get off to let her on first’, announced the driver. When the front 20 people impatiently stepped off the bus, I and the remaining back passengers enviously watched them draw a huge breath of fresh air and awaited the re-load. The wheelchair girl had evidently hurt her leg and apologized, ‘I’m still a novice with this thing!’ as she rolled over a disgruntled man’s foot. When everyone was squeezed back onboard, I couldn’t help but overhear her conversation with a friend she’d spotted. ‘I got hit by a car dude!’ The fully capacitated bus was now either all iPod or all ears. She’d been hit whilst Jay-walking, running late for work.

As the delayed vehicle accrued speed along the remaining journey, we jolted past numerous stops where the expectant waiters either luckily replaced a disembarking passenger, or watched dejectedly as the bus doors moaned shut in front of them. Mumbled apologies signaled every stop sign and sudden acceleration, until the announced ‘SF State’ became music to my ears. The bus pulled up at 11.10 and heaved a sigh of relief as it released the majority of its digested passengers. The commotion had made me late for school, so I contemplated the wheelchair girl as I walked to class. She’d proved that worrying about being late clearly has its consequences, but I’m not sure what I’d rather: being late for class, or having a wheelchair with a guaranteed seat on the ruthless 28 bus.

By Jessica Wretlind