There was a drunk guy waiting for the #2 the other morning, down below the LRT stop on Franklin. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say he was drunk as though it’s a fact instead of a guess. I’ve been pretty unsteady on my feet since my accident, and people watching me totter across uneven pavement with patches of ice and snow might think I’m intoxicated too. But anyway, this guy, who was so wrapped up in winter gear that all I could see of him was his giant black moustache, dropped a backpack, a suitcase, and a plastic bag next to the bus stop sign, and then reeled over to a near by bench for a quick cigarette, but as soon as he got it lit, the bus came through the intersection, so he only had time for one puff before he pulled himself to his feet, and went to retrieve his bags.
I lost track of him after that, as I picked my way across the ice to get to the bus, and then pulled myself on to it. For some reason, all the #2 drivers I’ve encountered so far are jerks. A crabby subpopulation. Not saying it’s cause and effect; could just be coincidence. But there it is. He’s a crab. He never lowers the step for me, or for anyone else who needs it, whether they have canes or walkers, or piles of packages, or prominent limps. He has a long, narrow face, with a narrow frown, and his eyes don’t even flicker in response to a “Good morning,” or a “Thank you.” I always say “Good morning,” or “Thank you,” to him anyway; I quit saying it to one of drivers on my old route, but I always felt bad about that.
After I settled myself in to my seat, about half way back (I know the seats in the front are designated for people with mobility issues, but the sideways jostling when the bus starts and stops is painful to my hip, so I sit further back), the driver spoke. It was the first time I heard him speak, not just that morning, but ever, but I had the feeling he was continuing a conversation that had already started. “You gonna pay?” he asked.
“I got a transfer.” This was from the person in front of me. It was a high pitched petulant voice with a little hoarseness in it from years of smoking, and I thought at first it was a woman. I didn’t notice the backpack and suitcase and plastic bag right away, so I didn’t realize it was my moustached friend from the bus stop.
“Bring it up here,” the driver said.
“I had a transfer but I threw it away,” the moustache man said.
“Well then you gonna get off,” the driver told him.
“I can’t get off, I gotta get to treatment,” Moustache said. “I’m starting treatment today.”
The driver was silent, but he opened the bus door.
“I been drunk 18 years. I start treatment today.”
“You either pay or get off,” the driver said.
“But if I don’t get to treatment,” Moustache began, but the driver cut him off.
“Oh, forget it,” he said, closing the door and pulling the bus away from the curb.
There was a moment of silence, and then the Moustache Man said, “No, you forget it. Just let me off this bus.” He started gathering his bags, and trying to get to his feet. The bus kept moving. He stopped to ring the bell, but the driver didn’t stop. “No, you want to put me off, then put me off,” Moustache said. “I ain’t gonna ride this bus. Guess I’m just not going to make it to treatment today.” He jerked at the rope to ring the bell again, but it’s designed to only ring once. “Put me off!” he insisted. The driver had passed two intersections without stopping, but now there was a passenger waiting. When he pulled to the curb to let the new passenger on, Moustache grabbed his bags and bustled off, still shouting, “I just won’t make it to treatment today, because of you!”
I wondered, briefly, why he was still trying to get off the bus after he won the argument. But then I realized just how much he was about to lose. Showing up for treatment would mean giving up that warm security blanket of boozed he’d carried with him for 18 years. Watching the bus door close, and that momentary feeling of, “Ha! I won that one! Now I’m on my way to treatment,” segued into a feeling of, “Dear god, what have I done. Now I’m on my way to treatment.”
I imagine him later that day, or later in the week, running into one of his workers who wonders why he no showed at the treatment center. “I was on my way, but I couldn’t find my transfer, and the driver put me off,” he tells them. “I would have made it, but the driver put me off.”