These are the people in my neighborhood

Today in the elevator, on my way out of my building, I nearly got off at the 2nd floor by accident. One of my neighbors, an older black man who was getting on, chuckled and said he thought I’d changed my mind about leaving. We theorized what had gone on in my brain: “Nah, I don’t want to go, why would I want to do that?” I thought he made a good point.

I had to catch the bus at 8:45 a.m. to get to work a bit earlier than normal. As part of rush hour, the ride was definitely more crowded than yesterday, and momentarily fit the image most people have of buses in L.A.: miserable, hostile people forced to stand, crammed together, clutching onto the poles as the vehicle lurches to hell. Most people were standing, but there was one free seat and no elderly or handicapped person angling for it so I took it. There was constant Spanish chatter from all corners, but I was able to block it out mostly and read. “Portrait of Dorian Gray” is getting freaky. Every sentence practically is gold.

Reminder: it hurts to ride sideways. Always try to sit in a front-facing seat.

How long will I have a clenched stomach? I’ve had one ever since my car accident. As soon as I notice that I’m not clenching, my noticing triggers it again, and never for any specific reason; just a lot of unformed, vague anxiety. I don’t ever want to get behind the wheel again. This is absurdly unrealistic, but it’s how I feel right now. Also I can’t sleep because my stomach won’t let me and I’m afraid I’ll oversleep and miss the bus.

People, it’s been ONE DAY and I’ve already had a nightmare that I missed the bus.

Oh and get this: the instant I exited the Culver City 6 outside work, there was a car accident in the street behind us. Someone’s front light and license plate got smashed; possibly a hit and run. The Asian girl who exited ahead of me and I both saw it happen. “Yikes!” we said. “I’m glad I was on the bus.”

The transfer wasn’t pleasant at all this morning, though at least this time I had sunblock on. But the speeding cars get so close to the curb as they woosh by. They kick up tons of garbage; a leaf even landed in my hair and nearly smacked my face.

On the plus side, at Westwood/Wilshire there’s a Starbucks. I might have time to grab one en route one day (if they allow that on the bus).

I am precisely one nickel short for return fare, but one of my co-workers gave me the change. I will be at the correct stand tonight.

Weirdly, I’ve felt more connected to my community during these past two days. In our cars (almost NO ONE car pools here) it’s you and your hunk of hurtling metal vs. everyone else’s hunks of hurtling metal, fighting for space and speed. The angry din of horns honking, ugly music blasting, people slamming on breaks, tires squealing, dangerous weaving in and out of lanes, strangers yelling at one another…I just don’t want to have to worry about it; I just want someone to get me home safely.

Walking to the stop in the early-ish morning, the leaf blower guy pausing as I go by so I don’t get blasted; the friendliness of the bus drivers; it feels like we’re all in this together, whatever “this” is.

Life? Los Angeles?

Trip 1 – Night

I left work 5 minutes early at the urging of my co-workers so I wouldn’t miss the bus. They are disturbed by my abrupt new habit; I can tell.

Suddenly I’m paranoid that I will miss the bus, so I run to the NE spot (again, my brain nearly explodes determining which corner this is) and wait for about ten minutes. An Hispanic woman and her loud, high-pitched, chatty child stand uncomfortably close to me. The child keeps moving into my space, back and forth, back and forth, while tugging on the strap of her backpack like a bungee tether. A hunched-over man joins us and asks if the bus is coming (it’s clearly not; he is looking the same direction we are), and promptly disappears behind the other side of the wall.

A moment passes, and then angry, tourette’s-like, repetitive machine-gun mutters of “cocksucker!” blurt over the wall. Why do possible schizophrenics always say “cocksucker”? Is it a thing they all agree to say, for maximum discomfort? The Hispanic woman and I exchange a look, complete with simultaneous widened eyes, giggles and embarrassed raised eyebrows. I decide I like her. But not her child, who keeps trying to step into traffic.

I look at my cellphone clock. The bus is over ten minutes late. A blur of green: It’s the Culver 6! Going up the street at a different corner. I’m at the wrong stop! I book ass to the other corner and hop on. I am so happy that Schizophrenic Cocksucker and Annoying Child are not going to be my “regular” companions each night after work. This time I ASK for a transfer and get a slip. I use it as a bookmark.

We drive up to Wilshire/Veteran and I get off and stand around for a while, trying to read. I have to keep reading the same passages over and over though because my mind is wandering, wondering when my transfer will arrive and fearing I’m not at the correct corner; but I am, and the bus comes, and NO ONE’S ON IT!

WOOT! Bus all for me! The driver is a younger Asian guy; he seems nice. I show him my transfer slip. Am I supposed to put it in a slot? There are slits for dollars and coins, but no electronic reader thing. He says to just give it to him, so I do. I’m a quick study. Tomorrow I will be at all correct corners with correct transfers and everything. I’m actually excited about tomorrow’s sojourn.

Bus all to myself doesn’t last; at the very next stop, like 10 people get on. Hey, some of them are white. How about that. Probably because we’re in Westwood. I sit by the window and read. I get through about 30 pages; not bad. The woman behind me is talking en espanol on her cellphone. I can’t read anymore; her words, foreign though they may be, are cutting through my brain. I wish cell phones were banned on the bus. Fun fact: Eating food is banned.

Someone to my right uses the phrase “my nigga.” I stare hard at my book, seeing nothing.

A woman gets on and sits next to me, but I’m not bothered ‘cuz my stop is coming up. I get home about an hour after I left work, which is 15 to 20 minutes later than if I’d driven, but for some reason I don’t care at all. It feels good to walk up my street. I must remember to bring a sweater for the evening ride next time.

My husband and I wonder if there’s a way to ride to work that doesn’t require a transfer. We input different addresses but no cigar. Tomorrow I will rule the bus system!

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