Bus Tales - What’s happened to you on the bus?

Justice on the Bus

“I’ve got your back.” Not words I am used to hearing, not in real life, certainly not directed at me. Until yesterday on my way home from work, I’ve never had occasion to feel emboldened by these words. It felt great. For the first time ever I could detect a hint of the security one feels in the loyalty of families, friends, or gangs, whatever the case may be, when you know that if someone messes with you, they’re going to pay.

Going west on the 21 I found myself as a central player of what I have been calling Justice on the Bus. JOB is a code of conduct enforced by riders. For example, when a bus approaches a stop where there is someone who uses a wheelchair, not only do riders fly out of the handicapped seating area to make room, in preparation they flip up the seats and straighten out the buckles used to secure the chair. Or when the driver pulls away from a curb as a woman with a stroller and two children in tow is running to catch up, he’ll catch hell if he leaves her stranded.

I’ll never forget the time when I sat across from a man who looked like a bad scene, in my estimation someone to be avoided. I’m not big on chatter anyway. I generally don’t want to answer the meddling questions of a stranger about where I work, live, shop, whatever. Nor do I want to hear about the trials and tribulations of a man that smells funny, how his ex-wife screwed him over three years ago, what an asshole his landlord his, or why he can’t seem to hold down a job for more than a few months at a time.

It’s not that I don’t care about the people on the bus, practically roommates. I do. I care about the young mom who’s a little awkward with her new baby, holding it more like an old doll than a first born. I care about that teenage girl who’s got this great spark in her eyes, some originality, a fabulous coolness factor that makes me feel like a big fat square, but in a good way. I want this girl to graduate from that alternative high school in the strip mall where she’s a student, attend college and quit smoking before the lung cancer settles in. I care about the creaky old man who takes forever to board and without fail makes me late for my connection, the fat people who don’t fit so good in the seats, the drug addict who sleeps with her garbage bag full of crap strapped to a flimsy dolly, and the gaggle of Somali women off to their English classes. I care.

So, here’s this guy who looks like trouble. He has holes in his sneakers, he’s dressed too warm for the weather, and he’s carrying a plastic jug half full of red juice that sloshes around with the lurching of the bus. It’s easy to imagine it splashing on me. I’ve seen his type a million times before and I’m not in the mood to entertain him. To his credit, Juiceman respects the vibe and leaves me alone. A few minutes into the ride another man boards. He’s trying to pay with transfers he picked up from the sidewalk and he’s about to get the boot when Juiceman offers to pay his fare. Handshakes are exchanged. Juiceman says that he’s glad to help. If he were in a bind, he’s certain someone would step up and lend a hand. Not a problem. No big deal at all. It’s just money. As the men are having this moment, I can’t take my eyes off of those ratty shoes.

I have a lot to learn about Justice on the Bus.

JOB takes many forms on a daily basis on every route, to be certain. When a kid who wants to exit out the back door can’t get the attention of the driver, a chorus of young black men wearing giant cartoon ball caps, flawless white shoes, and their pants mid ass yell, “Back door!”

I have not seen JOB take the form of telling some loudmouthed asshole on his cell phone to shut the hell up. While I once did see a driver take issue with one of these idiots who had mistaken the bus for his personal phone booth, he did not get the standing ovation that I thought he deserved. Nor did the riders cheer on the driver who gave the boot to the cocky bastard who was spitting sunflower seeds on the floor. And no one said a word when the backseat was cracking open beer and chugging them one after the other. So, I can’t say precisely where the lines are. I just know they’re there.

So, how did it come to be that I went from being an anonymous commuter who mostly avoids engaging people to someone who had the kind of backup that makes a person feel puffed up enough to pick a fight with a Potty Mouth?

Here’s what happened. Mr. Potty Mouth slips on the bus passed a woman who’s getting off using a walker and all of the rigmarole with the ramp that goes with it. She’s slow and Potty Mouth is clearly irritated. He sits across from me and right away I sense he’s trouble. After a zillion people file off and another zillion people file on, we’re off.

Potty Mouth grumbles something about “Americanos”. His tone is menacing. He looks out from over his sunglasses to gage reactions. No one takes the bait including the other Latinos within earshot who are now staring straight ahead, presumably to avoid eye contact with the man. It is obvious they are uncomfortable, maybe offended or even intimidated. The best I can tell Potty Mouth is talking about Americans using the most obscene language imaginable.

At some point, an old man with a cane gets on the bus and I give up my seat to him. As I turn around to take an overhead strap, I see Potty Mouth kick the old man on the back of the heel. It was not an injurious kick. The old man is completely oblivious. Nevertheless, I have had enough.

“Hey!” I say, knowing that Potty Mouth doesn’t appear to speak English and that I don’t speak a word of Spanish. He grumbles something at me.

“Hey!” I say again. “I saw that! You kicked that man!” I say.

Again, insults fly. I resort to cursing. I tell Potty Mouth to F— off. I figure the F-word is universally understood.

That’s when I heard a quiet steady voice behind me.

“I’ve got your back.”

Others chime in. “Me too. We’ve got you covered.”

A developmentally challenged man tells me to kick Potty Mouth in the teeth.

I turn around to see a young black woman sitting behind me. She looks me dead in the eyes and repeats, “I’ve got your back.” Then she sets her eyes on Potty Mouth. I look to my left and there are young black women poised on the edge of their seats, ready to go if it comes to that.

I am absolutely fearless. At this moment, I could do anything. I can take this guy. I could kick him in the teeth. He deserves it!

Did I disappoint my backup when I simply approached the driver who certainly must have heard Potty Mouth the entire time, being that he was sitting right next to him by the door? I firmly tell the driver, “This man is harassing people and you’ve got to put him off the bus right now.” After repeating myself a couple of times, the driver says he’ll call the police.

Apparently, Mr. Potty Mouth understands some English. He gets off at the next stop.

I look over my shoulder one last time at my lead backup.

“Thanks.” I say. She gives me a nod and I feel invincible.

It’s a good feeling to have Justice on the Bus at your back.

Tale by Rebekah Smith, posted on September 18, 2007, Tagged with argument, characters, justice, kick

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