Hit the Road Jack

I have officially joined the ranks of the car-less foot soldiers. A week ago Monday, my brother-in-law’s car spontaneously combusted as I was exiting the highway for work. Poor guy never really got to drive the thing at all since I’ve more or less had it since the day he bought it.

My old Saturn sits forlornly in the parking lot. I swear she looks at me with sad eyes whenever I go outside–as if she’d be able to pull it together if only I’d get behind the wheel and give her a try. Alas, I am too fearful of being stranded to risk it, but it isn’t for lack of wanting to.

Not being the kind of person to be separated from a paycheck by a little inconvenience like this, I returned a rental car Tuesday that I could no longer afford and armed myself with the COTA Bus schedule.

My Grandmother, who has recently endured knee surgery and is unable to drive for some time, declined my request to borrow her car. This was not nearly as surprising to anyone as the fact I mustered up the nerve to ask her in the first place.

Apparently, “a car is a pretty important thing,” and “doing so would set a precedent.” I guess if you loan something to one grandchild the rest will come out of the woodwork wanting to borrow things–probably kidneys or blood, or perhaps worse–money.

Over the River and Through the Woods

Being an apartment dweller I am fortunate to be on a fairly major bus route–the #2 from Main St. to High. My stop is a good 15-minute walk from home but a mere two blocks from work so it’s perfectly reasonable. In daylight.

My apartment community is a lovely little place. Nestled within some quiet woods I frequently see deer grazing on the side of the road and rarely have any trouble. From inside the forest it is easy to forget that it is also nestled right next to the highway on two major thoroughfares, squarely between the sleepy little burb of Reynoldsburg and the community of Whitehall, which can kindly be referred to as rough-around-the-edges. I walk along the edges.

This is not to say that I have any concerns for my safety (mother), merely that the scenery along this trek is not exactly what you’d consider pleasant. For instance, I am witnessing the gradual decomposition of several small animals and a very large carrot in addition to an exploded bag of garbage tossed along the side of the road.

This afternoon I puzzled over a discarded bottle of Guinness among the shattered remains of a variety of Budweiser bottles. My mind can’t quite equate the existence of a person with good enough taste to drink imported beer and poor enough taste to do so along the side of a road.

Beneath the dented guardrail there are several small packages of dental floss. Their arrival here a mystery, I can’t make myself ponder for too long.

My walk takes me over Big Walnut Creek–a muddy, rippling body of water in which I am fully prepared to discover a body. Every morning I glance over the rail wondering if I’ll make the morning news when I call in my discovery. So far all I’ve seen is a sad, forgotten pair of sneakers.

Hop on the Bus, Gus

Apparently I ride the short bus. But it is long. I told my mother I was commuting with some of her Franklin County clients and she was not surprised. Let me introduce you to Sally. Sally has Downs Syndrome and wears a Franklin County MRDD Special Olympics jacket and has worked for one of the community college downtown in the food services department for 16 years (she’ll start her 17th year in September).

She lives with her Dad, her mom passed on, and has a sister and brother-in-law in Denver, along with a neice and nephew and several cousins. She also has family in California but she wasn’t specific about them. Because she works for a school, she is off in the summers and travels ALL BY HERSELF to Denver to see her sister. She has chores at home, including laundry, taking care of the dishes, mopping the floors, and taking care of her Dad, because he’s the only parent she has left.

I learned all of this second-hand by overhearing her conversation with a fellow who is similarly-abled (though his condition isn’t so physically obvious). He’s a talker and a repeater. A 40ish guy with bad teeth, he made sure we all knew that they got a snowstorm in Denver last night according to Channel 10 News, which is apparently THE most impressive source of information available. He was very concerned that it was going to rain tonight, after the sun goes down, and wanted to know if the bus driver had gotten to mow his lawn yet before it rains tonight, when the sun goes down, according to CHANNEL 10 NEWS!

On Wednesday we had a wheelchair-bound rider with CP who leaned so far out of his chair I felt certain he’d topple the whole thing over at any moment. He wasn’t on board this morning and I wondered where he was.

This afternoon coming home a four-year old kid very unceremoniously vomited in his seat before his mother could get a trash bag in front of him. The hilarity of everyone around him getting up and moving towards the front of the bus carried me all the way home.

All Come, to Look for America

I’ve now ridden to and from work for two days and already I know the regulars. A person could do worse than the cultural experience of riding the bus for a few weeks. I know there are folks who choose to bus for various reasons. It’s cheaper, it’s better for the environment, they would rather read than sit in traffic, etc.. But most of those folks aren’t riding my route. I imagine if you polled my compatriots, 99% of them would tell you that they’d give an arm or a leg (or a kidney, Grandma) for a car–that busing is only a temporary thing–one day they’ll have enough to buy their own wheels.

And amidst the body odor, vomit, cursing, occasional Jesus talkin’, crack-whore pan handling and overwhelming apathy of the crowd I spend my mornings and evenings with, there is also a remarkable sense of humanity that strikes me and occasionally shames me.

To a one, these folks are courteous to each other and to the driver. People get up and flip the seats for the wheelchair riders and help strap them into their slots. Folks pull baby carriages up into the bus and offer directions and tips for new riders. Young and older folks alike give up their seats to those who obviously need them worse. And despite my best efforts to cocoon myself in a corner, read my book and disregard them, they are already getting under my skin.

We’re all just doing our best with what we’ve got and trying not to let things beat us down too much. Life is too short to sit still. We’re riding.