It’s a November afternoon. The cold gray sky has been dropping spits of ice and snow for hours, and it’s cold waiting for the bus.
I climb through the slush, up the steps and present my pass. No one makes eye contact, no says hello. I take my seat.
Across from me is a young, energetic, twenty-something, black woman. She has a slight accent. She talks non-stop into her cell phone.
Up front there’s an old, white haired, white woman, wearing a babuchka. She reads a pamphlet. I can’t make out just what it is. Perhaps she’s contemplating a new savings account.
Sitting behind her is a young guy, wearing a winter cap and sleeping.
Across from him are two buddies, talking about work. Work they did, work they’ll do and the bosses they don’t trust.
In the busy city street a bicyclist tries making his way through the traffic and snow. Our bus driver honks angrily at him. It’s snowy and cold, and I’m sure the biker is more miserable than the driver. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, so perhaps someone’s not in the holiday spirit just yet.
The bus is warm…almost too warm. Outside it’s all wet, slick snow.
We travel past the high rises, where men and women in robes and headwear navigate their way through the snow. I wonder what they thought of this place when they first arrived here. How different was their war torn, hot and dry, African homeland?
We travel past the edges of the hardened ‘hoods, where hopeful and bright eyed children look up at the falling snow with wonder, yet will eventually learn to avert their eyes, tuck their shoulders and survive their streets.
The young woman is still talking. The young man still sleeping.
We hit Lake Street. Suddenly there’s a flurry of people and traffic. Blacks. Mexicans. Native Americans. Children and more old ladies.
The two coworkers get off, and move through the crowd to catch the light.
A middle aged couple climbs aboard, between them carrying numerous bags of groceries. The closest grocer is four or five blocks east of here. That’s a long way to walk with all that food. Or did they come further and this is their second bus?
They argue about where to sit, where to put the bags and who has the fare. The bus driver has moved on already. Several blocks go by and the man is still trying to find a way to settle his bags, and to not let them or him fall over. The driver reminds him he still has to pay. I judge from the man’s reaction that it’s an unnecessary reminder.
His wife has moved back further on the bus, as if she wants nothing to do with him or his bags. The babuchka points out his bags are about to fall, and he catches them, resetting them. He kindly thanks her.
Young woman is still talking. Young man still sleeping.
The man with the groceries finally finds his transfer and some cash, and settles up with the city as the bus slides to a stop in the icy neighborhood. He’s been mumbling and talking to himself almost since he boarded. It makes me on edge. No one wants trouble and he’s only likely angry with his wife, or girlfriend, and perhaps with the bus driver. Surely he has no gripe with the babuchka sitting across from him, who helps him with his groceries.
Babuchka speaks: “Hard to bring home groceries in this, huh?”
I’m startled at her English. It’s native with no accent. I was sure she was Polish or Ukranian, and had somehow slipped south of her northeast neighborhood.
The man agrees. Babuchka suggests double-bagging to be safe. He did, and yet he still one rip out on the street.
Now he’s laughing. His wife, or girlfriend, is sullen and staring out the window.
He asks Babuchka her name, “Lordette” she tells him.
“I’m Jim,” he says.
“Nice to meet you.”
We arrive at Jim’s stop and he gathers up his groceries. The wife, or girlfriend, does her part, without a word.
Jim, on the other hand, smiles at Lordette as he’s about to step down and tells her, “You be careful getting home. Happy Thanksgiving!”
Varioni's Den 