Bus, we need to talk

So after Sunday’s night nasty bus experience, I was a bit disturbed but determined to continue using the bus to commute.

The morning bus crowd is much cleaner, quieter, nicer, and I had a newspaper to read so I was all set yesterday morning.

The ride back, however…

I caught the Culver 6 on time, and got to Westwood very early, like 7:15.

I went to wait for my transfer bus.

And wait.

And wait.

It didn’t get there until 8:04, people.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO COME APPROX. EVERY 12 MINUTES.

Where the hell was it? Why did three full cycles pass us by?!

And it’s not like I was distracted by reading and didn’t see it; the same people waited with me nearly the whole time. None of us could figure out what was going on. Also, I didn’t have a jacket, and I was cold and angry.

SO THEN.

I get dropped off at my stop, and realize I don’t have my keys.

My husband is not home, and I have nowhere to go. I am, effectively, momentarily, homeless.

I started to feel really bad about the homeless people I’d seen on the bus the other night. How miserable and lonely they must be. I know my situation doesn’t even remotely compare and it’s laughable to even juxtapose them, but I’m noting it here because my empathy level increased slightly from the previous day. How do they stretch out the time? What do they do all day? Nowhere to go, and no way of getting there. I wonder if some of them take the bus back and forth just to have something to do, and someplace inside?

So I managed to get inside my building, which was nice and warm, but not inside my actual room, so I ventured out again, unsure if my husband would be back at midnight or 1 am (it was 8:40 pm by this point; when driving I get home at 7:30, so I was pretty irritated all around; plus if I’d driven I would have remembered my keys, obvs).

I ended up walking to an Indian restaurant and lingering there for a long time over a big meal (which, obviously, is not something a real homeless person can do). Then I went to Ralph’s and read magazines. DAMN that store is cold. If I’d stayed in better touch with some of my apartment-mates, I could have stayed with them; or if I remembered which building M & R lived in, I could have stayed with them. Serves me right for being a loner, I guess.

A few hours later, Hubby gets home, sees the place is dark and untouched, finds my voice mails and calls me and I go home and go to sleep right away.