Bus Ride

There is nothing quite like riding the bus when you want to experience and get to know the true residents of a particular area. And when I say “true” I mean, of course, the lower level, economically depressed denizens who deal with tangible problems of basic survival on a day to day basis, people for whom mac and cheese and hot dogs is a good meal, folks who regularly drink Natural Light and aren’t in college, people who smoke GPC cigarettes. These, of course, occupy the bus in droves. But there are others too: intellectuals, greenies, adolescents, municipal employees with good jobs and transit tax deals who also ride the bus and make it a diverse, interesting environment for observing the human condition in action. It’s also a great place to get into a conversation. I’ve learned more random things on the bus than possibly anywhere else. Whether they’re all true or not…that’s a discussion for another time.

I won’t lie and say I ride the bus when I have any other option, because I don’t. But I do find myself on my local municipal lines ten or fifteen days out of the year. And while this is not a great investment of time, I do value these moments and am glad to experience them when I do. Every difficulty in life does indeed present an opportunity.

So yesterday I was coming back from dropping my car off at a fairly distant shop. I had to take one line then transfer to another to get to my town. On the second leg of my journey, I overheard a conversation that I will share with you here. It is a shining example of superstition, drug culture ethic and the brotherhood of those who have a little less leading to a moment of crystalline beauty. I shall do my best to recreate it faithfully and accurately.

Two white guys were sitting in the very back of the bus. One of the dudes must have been close to my age – mid thirties or so. He was pretty grizzled but had an optimistic tone to his voice. The other was younger, perhaps mid twenties. He had a mullet and a goatee. I thought mullets had gone the way of the dodo. Anyway, they got to talking.

“Yup,” was the first thing I heard from the older guy. The word popped off his tongue. “I was involved in a pretty nice harvest out there on the coast near Jenner.”

“That’s south Sonoma County, right?” inquired younger.

“You got it. I worked a plot of fifty six footers. They had cola’s on ‘em the size of my forearm, man. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Good deal. You make decent dough?”

“I did all right. Four grand for the months work – I was only involved during the last stage. But that was all cash. On top of that, they gave me a quarter pound of the best shit. And during that time, I didn’t spend a cent. They provided everything. Three square meals a day and all the beer I could drink. Man, it was sweet.”

“Sounds good.”

“Was it ever. But you know, I owed a little money around town and by the end of this week I was already down to two grand. And my baby and her mama are living at my Mom’s place. We’re trying to get a place of our own, but it’s tough. And two grand wasn’t going to last us any amount of time. So I put a G on the Forty Niners with my bookie to cover the spread against the Rams. And they won 35 to nothin’. So I parlayed that money and put it on the Vikings to win straight up against the Packers and I won again. My bookie paid me the next day. So here I am, right back with four grand.”

“No shit,” the younger said, obviously impressed. “I knew the Niners were gonna kick butt.”

“Easy money,” older replied, “any fool knew how that game was gonna go.”

“I need to hang out with you, man. Maybe you can get me some work or something.”

“Well, the harvest is almost over. But let me write down my name and number anyway. You got a pen?”

Younger produced a pen from his jacket.

“Here you go. And hey, have lunch on me today, brother,” older said, presenting the guy a bill. It must have been either a twenty or a ten, but I couldn’t tell, as I was only looking out of the corner of my eye.”

“Hey bro, no…you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s only bullshit money. It’ll be gone tomorrow. Anyway, I’m tryin’ to pump my luck. With me, there’s no middle. It’s either all good or all terrible. You’re helping my karma.”

“Hey, right on man. Thanks.”

The bus was nearing my stop. But the story was not yet over.

“Hey brother, I get off at the stop after next. Take this for yerself and give it a try. I know you’ll like it.” Older handed younger a nice little bag of weed, what I would normally view as a “twenty sack.”

“Jesus,” younger said, awestruck. “This must be my lucky day.”

“My lucky month,” older replied.

I got off at the stop nearest my office. My spine tingled with the joy of bearing witness to such an event and knowing I would be able to share it with you here. Part of me wants to break it all down and analyze it. But I’ll refrain from doing that. The story speaks for itself.