THE 55

I got embarrassed after the driver on the 13 said my student ID was only good on the 9, 10, 11, or 12. I offered to pay, but he said he'd let me go "this time." I felt like I was in a horrific childhood memory all over again.

1990. I climb on the school bus after running down the dirt driveway not to miss it; all the kids are in their seats, staring at me. I'm a foot taller than all of them and weigh as much as most of their male teachers. I'm wearing a Walkman under my hooded sweatshirt even though the bus driver warns me once a week it's not allowed. I look out from under my hair, trying desperately to find another social outcast who might share a seat. The door closes behind me and begins to roll down the hill. I'm halfway down the aisle, tripping over sneakers and smacking kids in the head with my book bag when I hear the air brakes screech and the door open again. The bus driver calls back to me. I think, "She saw my headphones." I pull my hair over the cords and turn around. Outside the flimsy sliding window, I see my mother running down the driveway in a cloud of dust in matted slippers and a threadbare flannel nightgown. She's calling, "You forgot your book." I panic. Her hair is huge. I breathe hard, fast breaths. I whip my head up. I blurt to the driver, "Keep going. I don't need it."

Granted, getting on the 13 Saturday wasn't quite that dramatic. It's just that I'd read SUNY students "ride for free," but never looked up the details. After I saw a few people do it successfully, I decided to start ID-flashing, too. It worked on the 11, so I tried again for the 13. You know the rest of the story.

Really, even though I knew I could ride for free, I had been paying until Friday, when I had two bucks left in my wallet, and I really, really wanted to grab a cup of coffee at the Muddy Cup for the rest of the walk home. If it weren't for my caffeine addiction, I'd have a lot more integrity. Of course the purpose of offering rides to students is that most of them don't have jobs, or well-paying jobs, and many of them don't have cars. Of course I was taking advantage, at thirty years old, having both decent employment and a reliable car, but having my student ID on me, and desperately needing that hot cup of fulfillment, I broke down and used the system. I suppose I had it coming to me. The dressing down on Number 13.

In any case, I took it downtown to grab the 55 at Washington and Lark. I promised my mom I'd take her to BJ's Warehouse for her birthday (we know how to party), and I promised my grandmother I'd stop at her house so we could all go together. I welcomed the opportunity to take another bus as I felt like my 9 through 12 adventures were biased toward students and state workers.

While I was waiting for the bus, a woman came up and asked, "'Scuse me miss. Would you happen to know what the date is?" I wanted to fill time and say, "Why, my dear, it's Christmas Day," but that was just because I also could not promptly recall the date. I thought for a second. "Uh. the 24th. November 24th."

She nodded, "Uh-huh. But you know what the day is?"

I thought again. "Oh! Saturday!"

She touched my arm lightly and laughed heartily, and I wanted to know what the joke was, and she said, "Ha-haa. I work Fridays." She shook her head from side to side, and crossed the street, the traffic light changing in perfect synchronicity with the punchline. I smiled after her. I could still feel where her hand had touched my arm.

A few other people waited inside the shelter. As long as it's not raining or icing, I tend to like being outside, so I stood there and tried to look preoccupied with my cell phone.

When the bus came, I took a seat halfway down the aisle and watched the rest of the riders get on the bus. A kid got on, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, and a woman stood in the doorway talking to the driver behind him, "Can you show him?...Yeah, can you show him? He doesn't understand where to get off." The driver nodded. She held up a gloved hand and thanked him.

A woman in a knitted pink hat settled in one of the bench seats up front. She was an elderly woman, smiling innocently like the every minute of every day held a new surprise. Shortly after her, a hunched man with a rosy face started to shuffle down the aisle. The woman in the pink hat watched and called after him. "Hello, sir. How are you?"

He turned and answered her kindly, "I'm fine, thank you," and continued to an empty seat on the left.

Perhaps I was expecting her to stare blankly at him while he stared blankly past her on his way to an empty seat. Somehow their formal, pleasant exchange baffled me. So far I'd ridden on the bus with any number of people of all ages and appearances, but I hadn't yet witnessed such politeness, especially among people who appeared to have lived so hard in younger years.

I've grown snobby in my adulthood. True, I haven't quit smoking yet and I've been known to have one too many glasses of wine on one too many occasions, and my body will no doubt begin showing the signs of wear and tear before I'm ready to let it; but I still have biases about the way people look. If they look worn and possibly mentally deficient, I don't expect them to enunciate and say "sir;" and if they look alcoholic, I don't expect them to say "I'm fine" and "thank you" in response to an ordinary pleasantry. I don't like that I have those biases, and I actually liked the three-second exchange that challenged to me to think differently. That, and it reminded me of family members long since past, who lived hard, too, but spoke eloquently, wrote beautifully, read and painted, and loved with the very same fervor that they used to abuse their own bodies. In a weird way, in a scary way, I felt like I was home.

It was like "The Ice Man Cometh [on the 55]." Or "The Wayward Bus [out of Albany]." There was a man on the bench with wild unkempt hair and thick-rimmed glasses. His clothes really were unraveling at the seams, with strings dangling above the tops of his shoes, and he was loosely holding two plastic bags between his knees. The lines on his face were deep. Lots of character. He reminded me of Kurt Vonnegut, only less well-kept.

He didn't stay on the bus long. He got off at Westgate and my attention turned to another man in camouflage, bald-headed, and rocking back and forth in his seat. He didn't look purposefully bald. I wanted to know what his deal was.

The rest of the ride was ordinary. I appreciated those people comfortable enough to listen to headphones or sleep against the window. As of yet, I haven't taken a trip long enough, or gained enough confidence to know that I'm not going to miss my stop as soon as I turn my attention away, or doze off halfway between Schenectady and Albany. Guess there's still time, though. There's still the whole month of December.