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The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars

It was one of those deliciously liquid days when I wanted to be in harmony with the universe. That is difficult at most bus stops, so I wandered away from the busy one by the Ferry Terminal to another stop on a quiet, tree-lined street far far away. Okay it was actually just three blocks away and around a corner by an old folks lodge. And, true, people sometimes rest in the little transit shelter there on their walkers, but usually alone, and only until they catch their breath, or something. Anyway, they always seem to leave when I arrive.  

Not that I’d mind them hanging around; they’re usually pretty quiet and smile a lot. But today, the bus stop and the bus that soon arrived was empty; it put me in the proper mood for the magical trip along the winding, forested Marine Drive where houses hide like elves behind old growth cedars and leafy hedges. Driveways emerge mysteriously from the evergreen jungle, and bus stop signs are scattered only randomly along the route.

At the times I travel, people are often random as well and most of those blend in with the bushes until they wave. They seem to stand behind trees or around dangerous curves and only emerge like leprechauns waking up for the day when they see the bus. Judging by the way they’re dressed, the ones I see may be workers though, or perhaps domestic help just coming off duty. I always wonder how the driver manages to see them in time as I feel the bus begin to slow.

Like a child on a bumper car ride in an amusement park I was enjoying the magic of the constant swaying and jolting of the erratically changing road, when the bus suddenly screeched to a stop. Although I was sitting a few seats away from the driver, I could hear him cursing under his breath at the woman standing under a tree on a curve.

The bus driver had nodded when I’d said good morning to him as I stepped on board and tapped my bus card at the machine by the door, but he hadn’t smiled then; I suppose they don’t really have to though, do they? We all have our moody days. But now he seemed really upset with the woman he’d just stopped for. “You have to give me more warning than that,” he said loudly, and shook his head irritably at her.

The boarding passenger, a tiny middle aged Asian woman quite beautifully dressed in a long red woolen coat and an immaculately clean white blouse, seemed confused at his obvious annoyance. She was carrying a wrinkled paper shopping bag along with a purse. She hunted around in her pocket for her bus pass and touched it to the card reader with no confirmatory beep. I suppose she thought it had registered, though, and turned to head for a seat.

“Come back here!” the bus driver yelled, like an angry father summoning a rude child.

It was clear that English was not the woman’s first language, because at first she didn’t seem to understand why the driver was yelling at her.

“Your card didn’t work! Try it again!” he said, but not gently.

Now she seemed really confused, and mumbled an apology in what I thought sounded like broken English, but to no avail.

“Try your card again!” he demanded, as the poor woman approached the card reader again,  with the same unfortunate result. “You have to pay!” he said in a loud accusatory tone. There was no need to be rude because the woman didn’t seem to know what she’d done wrong. Her card had made a noise at the machine, but apparently not the correct noise…

“You can’t ride the bus if you don’t pay, lady!”

Now she was really upset, and I could hear her trying to explain in her limited English that it had worked yesterday. She made another futile attempt to get the correct sound with her card from the machine but now I could see her hand was shaking as she touched the reader once again.

“Don’t you have a credit card?” he asked in a loud angry voice. And when she didn’t seem to understand his question he did the usual rude thing we sometimes do to make a foreign language speaker ‘understand’. “Do… You… Have… A… Credit… Card… To… Pay… For… Ride?” he shouted.

I could tell by her face that either she still didn’t understand what he wanted, or didn’t actually have a credit card so she shook her head.

“Then… Do… You… Have… Money… To… Pay… For… Ride?”

She shook her head, and then, suddenly remembering she had some money in her purse, she fumbled around in it and held out a five dollar bill.

“We only accept coins, on the bus, lady!” He shook his head angrily. “So, if you can’t pay you’re going to have to get off,” he blustered and opened the door to emphasize the gravity of her crime.

This was ridiculous! I’ve seen other bus drivers let street people on board when they couldn’t pay; this lady was certainly not one of them. As she turned to exit the bus I shouted at her. “Wait!” and jumped to my feet grabbing my backpack and waving my bus card. “I’ll pay for her!”

She wavered at the door, stepped off the bus ,and then looked back at me, uncertain what to do.

I ran to the machine and tried my card.

“Won’t work, sir,” the driver said in a normal but gruff voice, still staring at the woman. “The card has registered that you’re still on the bus, and you can’t pay twice on the same trip.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling out a credit card and the machine pinged with a satisfied sound. The woman was now standing on the asphalt beside the bus her shopping bag resting on the road as she put the money back in her purse. She stared at me wondering what she should do next, so I helped her back on board. She bowed as she thanked me, a relieved smile blossoming on her face.

Once she was safely on board the bus driver signalled impatiently for me to get back on the bus. “I’m already behind schedule,” he complained.

I waved back at him with a rather rude gesture. “I’d rather hitchhike into town,” I yelled; and, contrary to obligatory bus etiquette, did not thank him for the ride…

He merely shrugged indifferently and closed the door. The woman waved to me from her seat as the bus drove off though, her eyes big with gratitude.

The busses run every half an hour on this route, but to tell the truth, it was a nice day for a leisurely stroll along the well-treed road… I felt good about my gesture, but actually it’s probably easier to take a stand on things like this when you’re retired.

It still counts though, doesn’t it…?

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