A TYPICAL NIGHT ON MY BUS: THE LOONIES AMONGST US...
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON NOVEMBER 15, 2009
Every city has its own rhythm. Its own heartbeat. Its unique flavoring that sets it apart from all other cities. But all towns have certain things in common: a downtown, a warehouse/industrial area, commercial strips, residential districts, the ’hoods, and the red-light districts—which are usually reserved for heavy dope dealing and prostitution of all varieties, tastes, and kinks, after all the businesses close for the day in the warehouse zones.
For the most part, when someone drives, their intentions—where they hope to go—are concealed, because they could be going anywhere as far as you’re concerned and no one is any the wiser. But when your option of moving about the earth is limited to public transportation, your movements are literally just as transparent to someone like me, who happens to be driving the very bus you’re forced to take every day.
It’s funny—although I sit there in the driver’s seat of that bus every single day, aside from the occasional greeting, most people treat me like I’m invisible. They have no clue that I might know more about their private lives than they could ever imagine.
Repetition is the greatest teacher. I never come to work with the intention of learning anything about someone’s personal life, but over time I can tell you what many of my regular passengers are going to wear every day of the week—and which wigs my female riders will slap on their heads as though I won’t notice.
I had this one somewhat overweight, hot-and-bothered, middle-aged woman who walked slightly bent over with a limp and wore her “Beyoncé” wig every payday. She was a very nice lady, but she had no business wearing that wig. It wasn’t becoming, and she wasn’t fooling anyone. Maybe it was a last, fleeting attempt to capture her long-gone youth—but unbeknownst to her, we all go through changes as time wreaks havoc on our egos. Still, I guess it was harmless…
So why did I say she was a nice lady? Did she pass away? Did she move? Actually, no to both. I still see her occasionally—standing on the other side of the street, waiting for the bus scheduled to arrive behind mine. She refuses to ride if I’m driving.
What happened?
To understand this, you have to go back to when she first started riding with me. She works at Walmart—the one located right in the middle of the hotel clusters where tourists flock, not too far from International Drive on Turkey Lake Road.
That particular Walmart has a very different “feel” if you’ve ever been there. It’s always filled with excited visitors from other states and countries. It has what I call an “airport feel,” because of the constant turnover of people just passing through. And while that energy can be exciting, it’s also draining when you’re obligated to go there every single workday.
So when the store employees board my bus, I overhear everything: who the supervisor’s pet is, who stole money from the register, who might be smoking crack because they keep calling in sick and losing weight, and who’s messing around behind their spouse’s back in the dark parking lot during smoke breaks.
In that kind of intense, hostile work environment, it can be a bit much—especially for an older woman. So Diane (yes, her real name) always looked forward to the short fifteen minutes riding with me to unwind before transferring to the bus that took her home.
At first, pleasant greetings turned into general conversation. Then she began sharing personal information—harmless stuff like her favorite dishes or her last visit back to New Jersey, where she was born and raised.
But eventually, she began confiding things that should’ve stayed between her and the Creator.
I don’t understand this, but so many people feel free to talk about the most intimate details of their bedroom lives on a public bus. Don’t be fooled by headphones or fake sleep—everyone is listening.
Diane was no different. Soon it was public knowledge that her husband hadn’t touched her in years—even with the Beyoncé wig. I backed away once she started ranting, partly because I wasn’t interested and partly because indulging that kind of talk wasn’t professional.
But she couldn’t stop. She told everyone how hard she worked, how he never helped with the bills, and how her eighteen-year-old son demanded money for his cellphone while never lifting a finger around the house.
Her life was a mess. At first, other passengers encouraged her stories for entertainment. Eventually, it became annoying—same tired, depressing tale every day.
Through it all, I still treated her with basic respect. It was something she clearly didn’t get at home. What I didn’t realize was that she had started to see our bus driver–passenger relationship as something much more than it was.
I first noticed her long, hungry stares in the reflection of the windshield. Every bus driver knows that trick—it’s prevented theft many times. You can see people without them knowing you’re watching.
But her gaze wasn’t harmless. It wasn’t casual appreciation. It was unsettling—wide-eyed, euphoric, unbalanced.
One day, as she exited my bus, she gave me a flirtatious look—completely unaware that her wig was slipping, exposing uncombed gray hair along her neckline. She was missing a few screws for sure.
The next day proved to be her last ride with me.
The day started routinely—teen girls gossiping in the back, two men exchanging numbers about a job opening, an older woman whispering praises to the Lord.
Diane sat near the front, as usual.
Then Eboni boarded.
Eboni used to ride my other route. We’d laugh—quietly—at some of the odd characters. Just clean fun. Seeing her again was pure joy. We hugged, laughed, and radiated genuine, platonic energy.
Apparently, that was too much for Diane.
Eboni and Diane worked together, and Diane knew I’d been friends with Eboni long before I ever met her.
Diane snapped.
She stood up and screamed profanities, demanding to get off the bus immediately. I pulled over at the next stop and let her off while she yelled about always getting the short end of the stick.
That day opened my eyes. You never know how kindness will be received—or the mental state of the person you’re being kind to. If she’d had a gun, I might’ve been a statistic.
Now she waits for the bus behind mine.
Which brings me to another sad story—Tawana.
Tawana is twenty-nine but has the mind of a child. She works at a local theme park and spends nearly every free hour at the downtown bus station looking for attention.
She’s tall, slender, with a pretty, innocent look—and men take advantage of that.
For years.
She rides buses just to talk to drivers. She lingers. She follows routes. Men—grown men—exploit her.
She once proudly announced to a full bus that her doctor “pulled the baby out of my honeypot,” smiling like a proud student happy with her perfect second grade spelling test score.
Men would lead her into alleys and brag afterward.
There’s even a Viagra dealer who hangs around the terminal on paydays, supplying insecure men too ashamed to get prescriptions themselves.
What has sex become?
Where are tenderness, intimacy, restraint?
So much pain stems from unresolved issues with the opposite sex. So much could be avoided with self-control, self-worth, and self-respect.
If Diane and Tawana had known that… their lives might have been very different.
You can’t make this stuff up. I hope you enjoyed this tale…
Sincerely,
SCURV
